


Follower

by Lilmizzhugable13



Category: Descendants (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon Universe, Dark Thoughts, Evil Mal (Disney), Evil Wins, F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Non-Canonical, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Pining, Prompt Fill, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Some dark themes, Suicide Attempt, Torture, adding as i go, anger issues, nothing too dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2018-11-03 04:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10960143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilmizzhugable13/pseuds/Lilmizzhugable13
Summary: "It's when they're lying down, holding each other, that Mal realizes how weak she is." (Ben/Mal one-shot turned collection)





	1. Follower

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been meaning to do a Mal and Ben collection like my Doug and Evie one, but I kinda need to finish that one first, and I have the worst case of writer’s block right now. I know what I want to write, I just can't do it, and I'm sorry. I know it's just excuses.
> 
> Still, this popped into my mind today, and it was easy for me to write. It's not edited, and it's a bit more mature than what I'm writing for Doug and Evie, so be warned. There's a reason it's rated T.
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcomed! Thank you and I hope you like it!

It's when they're lying down, holding each other, that Mal realizes how weak she is.

It’s another cold winter day, one where the landscape, the sky, and the atmosphere in Auradon remains colorless, but it's still appealing to Mal. For once, Auradon is just as dull as she is. She could hear the school bell ringing, so Mal closes her eyes and imagines what her friends are doing. Carlos and Jay are probably racing each other to the Tourney Field, and of course, Jay would win and rub it in Carlos’s face for the entire practice, maybe even wrestle him just to get under his skin. Evie is working on Mal’s dress for some event she has to go to, and Doug is sitting on Mal’s bed, keeping Evie company. It is still technically their dorm, but Mal hasn't been there in a while, not since Mal moved into Ben’s castle.

Ben sighs into her neck and tightens the arm around her stomach, bringing her closer. He's laying behind her, staring out the same window she is. They've been like this for hours now in silence. Their bed is more than wide enough to accommodate two stretched-out teenagers, but it feels unnatural to have so much space between them, especially when the two are close in every matter. Mal hums and turns her back to the window so she can face Ben. She loses interest in the scenery and instead focuses on another sight. She loves how he looks. Disheveled hair, flushed skin, sweaty body, dazed stare, bruised lips; the marks on his neck, chest, and shoulders. She knows she looks the same. It's a stark contrast from the inspiring couple everyone else knows, but this is their bedroom. They don't have to act. Here, Ben doesn't have to be a prim and proper king. Mal doesn't have to be a redemption story. They could just be Ben and Mal, two opposites that somehow found their way to each other.

They're so codependent, Mal realizes. They spend every waking moment together and can never be more than 15 minutes apart before they feel physically hurt and run back to each other. It's unhealthy, she knows, but nothing about Mal is healthy. She is the spawn of the Mistress of Evil, and she's dating the posterboy for goodness. She shouldn't need Ben, but she does. She shouldn't want Ben, but she does. She shouldn't crave Ben, but _fuck_ , she does. This is an addiction, but at least she's addicted to Ben. There's worse things she’s been addicted to, could be addicted to.

It's been about eight months since she first came to Auradon, but Mal is still coming to terms with what happened. She understands the basic concepts: she isn't evil anymore, she's good, and she's proved it, but that isn't what Ben helps her with. She sees the dark marks on her legs from her mother’s staff, the scars on her back from whips her mother always had around, the red dots on her stomach when her mother became more creative and discovered her horns had a dual purpose. Ben sees them too, and when he does, he makes sure to kiss every single one, but now he's conquering the deeper, psychological wounds Mal doesn't realize she has.

At first, Ben used conventional methods. Throughout the day, he would make sure they were alone before asking, and every time, Mal would shut him down and ignore any advances he made. Now he knows to wait. Wait until it's late at night  when it's only the two of them and the darkness offers her some relief and she allows him to see the scars she carefully hides  to help her understand things she fails to grasp. She was abused. If her mother loved her, she would have never treated Mal like this. Mal deserved much more than what she was given. No person should have been treated like this.

It's hard to hear, and she may shed a few tears, but she accepts this easily because it's Ben telling her. And kissing her. And touching her. And holding her.

Ben isn't the first person she's done this with; however, he is her first boyfriend, the first person to earn that title. Mal wasn't sure she would ever allow someone to win that label, but Ben did. He didn't even have to work for it. Mal is sure she would have fallen for him at some point or another. It is just destiny they are together. That's the only thing Mal could say to make sense of it. He is her soulmate, her true love.

And now, as they lie together, Mal feels the words on the tip of her tongue, but she can't say them. She never could. It is just three words. Why is it so hard to say them? He tells her every day, every minute if he can, and every time, she cannot say them back. He tells her it doesn't matter to him, he still loves her either way, and she believes him. That gleam in his eye doesn't fade when she stays silent.

But while she cannot say those three words specifically, she tries to express her true feelings in other ways. She makes sure she's the first one awake so she can wake Ben up with a kiss. She always remembers to wear his ring every day, even if they are attending a formal event and their royal advisor insists it is not the occasion to wear such bulky jewelry over silk gloves (the look on Ben’s face when he sees it is worth the whispers and judgmental looks). When it is late at night and she is writhing beneath him, she makes sure to place one hand on his cheek and give him a heated stare before finally throwing her head back and letting go. There are many ways Mal tells Ben, but she can never verbally say it, and today is no different.

She accepts defeat and instead says, “I would do anything for you.”

Ben smiles, pressing his lips to hers. He shifts both of them so he is now on top of her. The weight of his body is comforting, and Mal sinks into the bed. “I know,” he responds, and Mal has to stop her eyes from rolling.

No he doesn't. He doesn't feel the gravity of her words. She is a survivor. She is a commander. She is Princess of Auradon, soon to be queen whenever _she_ decides she's ready for marriage. She knows how to lead. She is influential. She is kind, resourceful, intelligent. She is sarcastic, stubborn, head-strong. She is a contradiction. She is Mal, but one word from Ben, and she would be something different.

Nothing is off limits. She would do anything he asks her to do. She would lie to her friends, his parents, and their people for him. She would steal from anyone from any kingdom for him. She would lead an entire army or kill one for him. She would go through hell and back for him. She would follow him wherever he goes. She would gladly become a villain again if he asked her to, without hesitation, but he _doesn't understand this_.

But before she could voice any of this, Ben continues, “and I hope you know...” He pauses and stares into her eyes. It's a gaze Mal knows so well, one he gives her when they're physically, mentally, and emotionally intimate, when they're standing apart from each other in a crowded room, when they sit next to each other at the dinner table with Ben’s parents sitting right next to them. It's Ben’s way of telling her _hello and I'm here and I will always be with here and I care about you and I trust you and I love you and I know you love me too even if you can't say it yet but just know I love you so much_. She's seen it many times, but it still manages to leave her speechless. Ben’s eyes flicker to her lips as his hand moves to her cheek, and Mal closes her eyes. She feels Ben’s lips trail her neck, and when he reaches her ear, he whispers, “I will never take advantage of it.”

 _Oh_. So he does get it.

Mal moans then wraps her arms around Ben’s neck and guides his head down. Their lips join together, and Ben’s hands are now roaming Mal’s body. They've talked enough for today.

She is weak, and Mal still has a long way to go before she can be a person who proudly stands right beside Ben, but these baby steps feel like leaps and bounds. She'll get there someday, and she'll be fine, and she'll tell Ben she loves him. That's what keeps her moving.


	2. Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today is one of those days. (Mal's p.o.v.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was writing this as a separate piece, but then I realized how well it fit into this universe. I'm not gonna make this story into a multi-chaptered plot fic, but I really like how these two pieces fit together.
> 
> "Follower" focused on their relationship, and this one focused on Mal's mental health. She basically has a breakdown, and there are explicit descriptions of child abuse, so be warned.
> 
> I hope you really like it!

Today, it's one of those days.

Mal is strong. She knows that. After all, no one can be the most feared figure on an isle, fall in love with their complete opposite, save an entire kingdom from the Mistress of Evil, and save that same kingdom again from their archnemesis without having some strength. She can outwit Evie, beat Jay in an arm-wrestling contest, and win against Carlos in a race. Her physical strength is incredible.

Her mental strength is a different story.

She's usually able to keep things under control, keep the memories and bad thoughts from clawing their way back up her throat, and continue functioning as any other normal human being. Her duty as princess helps too, keeping her mind off her inner turmoil and on whatever task is at hand. But there are days when she isn't leading, and nothing can help her inevitable mental shutdown.

Today, it's one of those days.

These days are rare, coming maybe every once or twice in a blue moon, but they're never easy, and they always leave her drained for a good week after it hits. It never matters what’s going on that day, what happened the day before, whether Mal slept a complete nine hours that night, if she remembered to speak to her royal advisor about the new arrangements for the upcoming whatever.

The weather is usually unpredictable. Sometimes, it's a sunny day, the sun mocking her. Sometimes, it's snowing, the blank landscape too pure for her comfort. Sometimes, it's raining, a perfect little black rain cloud hovering solely on her.   
  
Today, it's raining.

She loves the rain. She has good memories with it. Rain on the Isle meant fresh water to drink. Her first thunderstorm was spent with Evie, the two children hiding under covers with a flashlight and fruits they stole earlier that day. Usually, the day after a storm, Mal would wrestle Carlos in the mud and when he lost, she would challenge Jay and when he lost, Mal would have ultimate bragging rights. At the cotillion when Mal finally told Ben she loved him, they spent the entire night dancing in the rain, kicking water and splashing each other.

Today, she cannot find any of that warmth.

The room is cold, freezing, so she's bundled herself up in the bed sheets, trying her hardest to feel alive. It's not working.  It's so quiet. The only noise comes from the soft drumming of the rain, and Mal lies on her side, staring at the drops hitting her window pane. Her eyes pick one, stare at it until it slides down from her view, and repeat the process. This is how she waits, waits for something to snap her out of this. Nothing comes.

Her stomach growls. She knows she needs to eat to maintain her health, but she doesn't move. She doesn't want to take care of herself. There's no reason to. No one needs her. No one cares about her. No one wants her. That's how it's always been. Her own mother didn't even want her, constantly calling her a mistake.

Her breath catches in her throat for a second. Then, it rushes in and out. Her chest rises and falls at record speed. The memories claw its way to her head. It digs deep into her brain, blurring her surroundings and unlocking an archive of repressed events. Her eyes clench shut, willing them away.

Today, they don't go away.

It's too real. It's like she's transported back to the Isle, and that very thought scares the shit out of her. Everything is just as she remembers: mismatched furniture, peeling wallpaper, antique refrigerator, chipped throne.

Suddenly, she's there, looming over Mal.

“Oh, Mal,” she sings in a misleading soothing voice. One hand strokes Mal’s cheek, cherishing the youthful, clear, bright skin. Skin she once had.

She swipes at Mal.

Mal’s head whips to the side. Her body wants to follow, but it's tied to a pole. The rope digs into her body, loose enough for her to breath but tight enough to leave marks. Mal keeps her head down, but she's there, staring into her eyes with green ones. They glow, and as she stands, Mal has no choice but to follow. She’s vaguely aware of the blood oozing from her cheek, down her neck, and under her shirt.

Now there's a punch to her other cheek. Then another. And another. And somehow, her staff makes an appearance against her gut. And her legs. And her back. And her neck. And her head.

It hurts so much. She's just five. Why does she need to suffer through this? She did nothing good today. She stole everything she was asked for, terrorized everyone she needed to, and kept her title as the next ruler of the Isle. Uma tried to take it, but she didn't let her. She was so bad. Wasn't that enough? What else did she have to do?

“Do you want me to stop?”

Yes. Yes, she does, but blood is crawling down her throat. She can't speak. Her head feels like it's split open. She can't nod.

Her silence means ‘no’ so the staff comes back and her mind begins working again.

_ Pain. Pain. Nothing but pain. Hurt. It hurts. Please. Please stop. Mom. Please. Evie. Help me. Someone. Please. I’m going to die. Please. Don't let her do this. I don't want to die. Please. _ The only thing that spills out of her mouth is blood.

Faintly, in the back of her foggy, terrified mind, a thought drifts through.   
  
_ This isn't right. _   
  
It isn't much, but in the midst of this hell, it somehow means the world to Mal. She clings to it, refuses to let it go. It gains traction, getting louder and louder until it blocks out the pain and she realizes why it means so much.   
  
_ I’m not five. I'm not on the Isle. She can't hurt me anymore. _   
  
Her eyes snap open, heart beating a million miles per second. Her entire body is shaking and sweating. She stares at the ceiling, willing the tears away as she assures herself,  _ it's just a memory. Nothing else. It can't happen again. It won't happen again.  _ She's successful, and she's back in the real world, but then she remembers the quiet and the cold and the loneliness.

Today, she's alone.

Until she isn't.

She suddenly feels the hand in her hair. Looking to her right, she sees Ben sitting there, a soft look in his eyes.

Mal forgot about him. She didn't mean to, but the feeling of abandonment in her chest makes her forget she has a boyfriend who is willing to do anything for her. However, it does nothing to distract her. The memory is still fresh in her mind, there to remind her she is nothing. She is useless. She doesn't deserve anything Ben has to offer her.

She closes her eyes, but it's too late. Hot tears stream down her cheeks. She's silent at first, but then her throat her closes in and her breath gets caught. She lays there, her body heaving with each sob that pours out.

Today, she cries her heart out.

Ben does nothing. He lets her cry without restriction, combing his hand through her hair. He feels a knot in his throat, but he clears it and focuses on the rain outside. He needs to stay strong.

Eventually, Mal is just staring at the ceiling again. Her breath is heavy, eyes red, cheeks puffy. Ben is still next to her, a lazy hand playing with hers. The room is dark, the only source of light coming from the soft glow of streetlamps.

Mal slowly sits up, throwing her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet hit the floor with a thud. There's a dull pain, but it's exactly what she needs. She groans, placing her head in her hands and rubbing at the sticky layer on her cheeks. Her stomach cramps. Her legs tremble. Her throat hurts. It almost makes her cry again.

Ben moves next to her. “Do you need water? Food?” His heart drops to his stomach when she doesn't reply, but he ignores it and places a hand on her back, rubbing small circles.

Today is just one of those days.

Throughout their relationship, he's endured four of these episodes with Mal. It's a whiplash start. There are no warning signs or symptoms that say one of these days are coming, and when they do, Mal turns into a completely different person. Her usual cocky, sarcastic attitude is gone, leaving behind a depressive, anxious, and, at rare times, suicidal version. It only takes about five to six days for her to get over it, but Ben always insists on staying the entire time. He ignores his duties, begging his father to take over while he tends to Mal. He says he doesn't mind, but she knows that's total bullshit. It takes just as much of a toll on him as it does Mal, and they both know that, but Ben always stays. She knows it's hard enough to be in a relationship with her, and these 'episodes' don't help the situation at all. 

Today, she wonders why Ben even deals with her.

“I love you,” Ben says. He moves his hand across his back to her side and pulls her to him until she's leaning against him. “I love you so much. I know that you don't believe I do right now, but trust me when I say I do. I love you so much. I've never loved anyone like this before. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

Today, something different happens.

“Can you…” she croaks. She pauses, clears her throat, and restarts, “Can you hold me?” Her last word dies off to a whisper as the thoughts crawl back to her head.

_ Oh, Mal. How pathetic. Stupid. Worthless. He won't hold you. You are weak. He will see that. It will disgust him. You do not deserve him. You are beneath him. _

But Ben doesn't patronize her. If anything, his eyes shine with hope and love. He gently pushes her back into bed and slides next to her. She's staring at the window again, but this time, Ben is behind her, hugging her body to his. And it makes a world of difference.

“Do you know what happened today?” Ben whispers in her ear. A sound gets caught in Mal’s throat, so Ben takes that as a sign to continue. “You know how Evie’s designing your dress for Cinderella’s ball? Well, she received the wrong fabric. She got pink satin instead of purple lace. She was furious, and you should've heard her on the phone with the company. I honestly never heard half of the colorful words she said. Somehow, Doug had calmed her down, and everything was fine until Duke came running into her studio. He was dirty, leaving mud wherever he went. That's when Jay and Carlos came in, just as muddy, and they got some mud on her fabric. Evie was ballistic.”

Mal is somewhat vacant, looking at the window but not seeing the raindrops, listening to Ben but only catching a few words, but at least her mind’s stopped racing. Everything always seems to slow down when Ben talks to her. The only sounds her ears pick up is his clear voice, not the muffled rain. Goosebumps cover whatever skin his fingertips touch. She feels her cheeks and ears inflame, and it makes her feel alive.

She's not okay, and she won't be for a few more days, but with Ben whispering in her ear about the antics their friends got into, she starts leveling out. One day, she'll thank Ben for this.

Today, she will just listen.


	3. Storybook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoever said love is patient and kind has clearly never been in love before. (Ben's p.o.v.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess this has turned into a compilation of BenxMal one shots. Oops.
> 
> These are kinda going to be all over the place, so I’ll start putting little descriptions of the time and setting. This one takes place the night of the cotillion in Descendants 2, when the cotillion is over and Ben and Mal are alone. This one focuses solely on Ben, his point of view on basically everything. A lot of angst, of course, but hey, angst is great!
> 
> Hope you guys like it, and if you have anything you would like to see, comment or send me a message, and I’ll see if anything comes to me. Hope you enjoy it!

 

Whoever said love is patient and kind has clearly never been in love before. This love strikes at him like a match, quick and scorching hot. It suffocates him, even if he feels like he can fly through the stars. His head grows heady, bones achy, and stomach muscles cramping. Is it supposed to hurt this much? Is he supposed to be so conflicted?

Somedays, their relationship is hell. On those days, they would kiss, and nausea would build in his throat. Every word they would speak held a sour and bitter note. He would wear jackets and turtlenecks to cover the skin blemished with possessive marks. He would feel alone, wanting nothing more than to leave Mal and spend the rest of his days at the palace where he could bury his face in paperwork.

But there was always something that sent him back into Mal’s arms every night. He would breathe in her scent (cinnamon) and count her ribs (24), and all his doubts and troubles and fears would disappear. The anguish he felt would be buried under the bedsheets. He was no longer consumed with loneliness as Mal curled against his body. His lungs were clear, his eyes dry, and his mind open.

Tonight is nothing like that. Mal is in a deep sleep, back turned towards him. She is wearing his pajamas, her lithe body swallowed in fabric. She is curled into herself with blankets wrapped around her, forming a cocoon. She is only inches away, but it’s too far for Ben’s liking.

Uma is gone, Mal is back in Auradon, and they are still in love. Everything should be back to normal, but it’s not. Mal is still wearing clothes, buried and hidden away from him. He can hear her steady breathing which pacifies him, but he can’t feel her or smell her, and he feels like something is missing. He constantly tosses and turns from side to back to side to stomach to side. His body is shaking from something other than the still cold in their room. He tries to close his eyes, but they just reopen against his will, and Ben idly wonders if this is what disenchantment feels like. He thought having Mal back would mean no more restless nights, no more fire and agony searing through his veins and licking up his spine, but clearly, he was wrong. This is worse than sleeping in an empty bed. Still, he can’t pretend like he doesn’t know why she decided to sleep like this.

He hates this, lying stiffly on the bed consumed with loneliness. His bones suck the breath from his lungs. Tears sting at his eyes. He forces himself to bite back his sobs. He isn’t angry, not at all. There is not an ounce of hatred in his body, and he hates himself for it. It’s easier to be angry. Anger makes him feel empowered and driven, but like this, he feels weak.

He knew she would leave. Their fight was horrible, but of course, his happy-go-lucky attitude pushed back any acknowledgments to the real dangers. That’s why when Evie told him of Mal’s abandonment, he couldn’t say he was surprised. But even though he expected (and maybe even hoped for) it, he never anticipated the anguish that crashed on him when she left. He can clearly remember the feeling, and with a night like this, it is easy for it to wash through his body.

The pain is long and excruciating. His heels dig into the bed and his fist clench the sheets. He honestly feels as though he is being torn apart, and maybe he is. His mind is fighting against his heart who wants to overwhelm him them with thoughts of Mal. It is an exhausting battle, but ultimately, he finds himself thinking of how things should be right now: Ben’s arm around her waist, fingers curled together, both locked in a firm and sure grip. They probably would be sweating, hair and sheets sticking to their bodies, but the real connection would be in their locked gaze. They would be staring into each other’s eyes, small grins on their faces in an act that’s intimate, more intimate than sex Ben thinks.

The thought makes him turn on his side and stare at Mal’s covered back. He studies Mal, treating her as if she is one of the wonders of the world, one Ben can’t even begin to understand, and it’s a shock when he finds that’s exactly what she is. It’s a miracle they are still together. Ben didn’t think they would last this long. No one did. The daughter of the Mistress of Evil gave the posterboy for goodness a spiked cookie to try and steal the wand, but along the way, they were careless enough to actually fall in love, almost dooming the entire kingdom. It isn’t exactly a story that ends with a happily ever after. But even though he can look past all the obvious red flags, Ben can’t ignore that this is his first love. Even if it worked with his parents and the other royal families, Ben knows he isn’t supposed to fall in love so young. First loves never last, and when the other person is the spawn of evil itself, then it will  _ definitely _ never last. All the evidence points to an inevitable end.

But he can’t trivialize this feeling any longer. It is love. No one may understand it, not even Ben or Mal themselves, but it is love in its most dangerous form. They love in not white but red. They hate each other just as much as they adore each other. They are not a refined oil painting but a watercolor mess of muddy colors, skin, and tears, and they are the most beautiful thing Ben has ever seen.

Ben shifts towards Mal until he’s holding her. There are too many layers between them, but he still feels her heat seeping into his skin. He buries his face into her neck and inhales deeply. It’s been too long since they’ve been like this, Mal’s back against his chest, her soft snores gliding over him like a lullaby, her usually dangerous mind drifting off in peaceful wonder. This is a moment he will catalogue so he can remember it on the awful days. When they’re screaming at each other and he begins to wonder whether saving their relationship is worth the effort, he’ll think of Mal fitting perfectly against him, of how safe and secure he feels to have her finally back in his arms, of how the very essence of her being seems to calm him.

He carefully runs his fingers through her slightly damp hair, a hint of fondness clearly visible in his eyes. His heart lurches at the fact that Mal would never see it, but it calms when it realizes he will have plenty of opportunities to show her, then it races at the doubts his mind raises.

Ben wants to simultaneously run from her and run with her. Mal left because things got hard, but he accepted her back so easily. It’s easy to forget the betrayal and criticism he suffered through, to leave it all behind, but that ignorance in this world is danger. Ben knows. He has dealt with his fair share of it before Mal, when there was still hostility between the states and threats had been made to him as a young boy, during Mal, when he’d been kidnapped by Uma and held captive on her boat, and most likely after Mal, if there is a time such as that. He’ll live serving state to state. He won’t need school anymore, learning all he ever needs to know from experience. Sure, he will make a lot of errors, but that is expected. He belongs to the people, and he will die catering to their every need before he even bothers with his own.

But he thinks of Mal, sleeping peacefully despite everything she went through today. Even in the dim lighting, Ben can still see her puffy cheeks, and it complicates everything. Even though she is right in his arms, he misses her, misses the way he pokes at her stomach, misses those hearty laughs that come straight from her belly. He loathes to think of how selfish he is when he realizes he would throw his kingdom into a life of constant fear and anxiety, not knowing what villains might rip off their heads or who might be planning the next war, just to be able to kiss Mal every day even though he knows that at any moment, Mal may run away again and just give up, leave him stranded.

But then he thinks of what Mal has done to him, what the two have done together. He thinks of everything everything: their parents, her ill intentions, his ignorance, her abandonment, his recklessness, their relationship. He recalls their adventures, the countless times he made her smile or cry, the warmth that spreads through his stomach and chest whenever they lock eyes. He reminds himself of how much she loves him and how much he loves her. He makes sure he looks past the faults, seeing only a smart, strong woman. He thinks of all the good things, and he hopes in time everyone will forgive him for being so selfish. He hopes they won’t hate him. He hopes he won’t hate himself.

He thinks of Mal alone on the Isle with the moon and the stars and the wounds, where she used to think she would die alone, bitter and bleeding. He wonders if he forced her into that position. He listens to her heavy breathing. He traces the patterns on the window. He focuses on the words they spoke at the cotillion, the beats of his heart, the numerous regrets and losses. He counts the gold specks in Mal’s eyes, the different shades of purple in her hair, the number of times they kissed today.

Their story won’t be memorialized in museums. They won’t have a movie based on them. Their love won’t be coming out of parents’ mouths when their children ask for a bedtime story. This story has plot holes, grammatical errors, and misspelled words; it is screwed up in many ways, but it’s their story, and nothing will stop Ben from staying up late every night to soak in every word.


	4. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The word suddenly appears in his head, a tiny bird flying into a window. (Ben's p.o.v.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know when this takes place. Honestly, it can happen any time winter falls on Auradon, so it's really up to you. There's no references to canon events, so yeah…
> 
> Thank you so much for the reviews and follows and favorites and support! You have no idea how much this much motivates me!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this! Happy holidays!

The lake is completely frozen. Ben expected it to be, since this is Auadon’s coldest winter yet, but he didn’t anticipate this. Fresh snow coats the ground and empty branches, blurring together until it’s all one blanket of white. The rocks are all one solid block of ice. It’s quiet, no running water or rustling branches or howling wind.

_Beautiful_. The word suddenly appears in his head, a tiny bird flying into a window.

He knows Mal’s mouth is cold. His own mouth is cold. His nose is cold. Her nose is cold. He has a feeling that bubbles up, from his stomach, maybe. Maybe deeper, who knows, but it makes something in Ben that crumples.

He wants to push Mal against any one of these trees, any of those cold places, and kiss her. Kiss her and be kissed by her, over and over and over. Feel his whole body get hot. Feel Mal open his coat, slip her cold fingers under his clothes. Wants to feel his toes in the snow, water seeping in, wants his breath in her neck. He wants to feel Mal break him apart.

He feels like he’s floating, but not in a good way. He feels the large space around him, a looming feeling that reminds him of Auradon, a place where vultures circle around them, waiting for one of them (mostly Mal) to screw up so it can be documented and memorialized. That feeling is everywhere, oozing throughout school, home, hell, their bedroom, and even now. Ben wonders if someone is watching them. See him sighing at the sight of Mal’s rosy cheeks, see him reaching for her elbow and pulling her to him. See her face brighten, see her cold hands cup his cold face. He wonders if there is someone in the dark, someone hiding in the branches ready to fly out of the trees and hurt him, hurt them.

He has to turn away from Mal and look at the lake, the pureness of the scenery. It makes his eyes burn, so he closes them and lets out a shaky breath.

He’s so tired. His eyelids are heavy, and when Mal sneaks one hand to the back of his neck and squeezes, he drops his head to her shoulder. He has to. He’s too tired to do anything else. He needs to go somewhere, retreat into a corner where he can ground himself. He can’t keep floating, but there’s nowhere to go in this open field. They’re out in the world, and the world has no corners. He doesn’t realize his breathing is pitched until Mal slips a cold hand under all the layers and over his chest. Fuck, he doesn’t want to cry, not for this, but he’s so tired. He can’t hold it back. He just wants Mal, wants them alone without his parents and reporters and rules and judgment.

They can stay here. They can run deeper into the woods, get lost in a sea of white. They can live here their whole lives, watching the seasons pass by them without a single care in the world, but he’s so tired, and if Ben runs, Mal runs. He can’t make her run anymore. That’s all Mal has ever done. Run. Run from her mother, her past, her self. Things are different now. He promised her they were, so no running. Just grabbing. Holding. Steady. Deep. Sure.

That’s when Mal joins their lips.

_Beautiful_. Another hit against the window.

He keeps leaning forward, trying to find a ledge, a tree, a branch, anything. But it’s just Mal’s arm, her hands pulling him closer, lowering his head to kiss him deep. He groans, so hard and strange that he thinks it can’t possibly come from him. There is a hum all around them, a heat. It’s not just from them, it’s everywhere around, heat creeping up, like the sun had finally decided to break through the clouds and shine it's rays solely on them. A spotlight displaying everything he wants to keep private, keep between them.

His breath shakes hard as one hand finally falls on Mal’s back, pressing her closer. His other hand traces her body, caressing any skin he can find. Mal’s so quiet, just breathing, just whispering Ben’s name over and over. He sighs, so shaky, dragging his lips against hers without landing. A deep, wet hum.

They don’t belong here. White is too pure. They don’t belong in Auradon. Everything is too corrupted. They don’t belong anywhere, just with each other.

When they finally part, it’s as if he’s pulled out of the snow. Mal looks wrecked, jaded gaze, red cheeks, wet lips. It’s perfect, more than their surroundings. And then the sun really does come out, changing the world around them from grey to blue to pink to orange to just brightness, too bright for Ben to see. It all happens so fast, but the only color that remains constant is purple.

And the bird smashes its way out.

“Beautiful.”


	5. Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She stares longer than she should. (Mal's p.o.v.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one takes place after the second movie… and that’s it. Not much else that needs to be explained. Self-harm is incredibly minimal, and the dark thoughts are barely there, but still be cautious.
> 
> Happy New Year! I hope y’all had the best 2017 and have an even better 2018!

She stares longer than she should.

When she first arrived at Auradon, the first thing that seemed to leave Mal speechless was water. It was everywhere. Streams, fountains, lakes; hell, it even fell from the sky outside and inside. Showers, what an incredible invention. To create a machine that contained and sprayed water so people can use it to clean themselves… Evie tried to explain it to her once, something about pipes and pressure, but it all went in one ear and out the other. To Mal, it was nothing short of magic.

But the novelty soon wore off, and now, Mal doesn’t see the wonder in it. Instead, whenever she steps away from the falling water, she focuses on other things.

Mirrors. And right now, with her mind clear but her sight hazy, she stares at one.

Fog clouds the mirror, hindering it from fulfilling its true purpose, but that’s how she likes it. She could only see a pale outline against a black backdrop. She stretches out one arm, and with one delicate finger, she traces a line across the entirety of the outline. She’s not far off. She miscalculated on the ends of the line, but her finger uncovered the scar that spreads from her right collarbone to her left hip. It was her oldest and darkest one. Tensions had risen between her mother and Ursula, and despite her best effort, that tension had cut into Mal and Uma’s friendship which made Uma cut Mal’s body with her sword – or tried to, at least. Mal was quick enough to dodge any life-threatening injury, but not quick enough to escape the tip of the blade.

She moves her finger to where her neck should be and taps the mirror. She gets the circular mark perfectly, the spot where Harry had sunk his hook when she said she wanted to end their… whatever they had.

Her fingers trace a line directly between her breasts. Her mother’s doing this time, for no reason other than to mark her daughter in a place only they would know about. A mother-daughter secret. At least, that was how it was supposed to be.

Ben has seen it, all of them.

Her body feels numb, and she has no control of her hand as her palm hits the glass and roughly swipes across it. Despite the red flush from the hot water, her skin is still incredible pale, a perfect canvas for dark flaws. They stand out, highlighting every memory she wants to forget, displaying all the abuse she wants to hide. Eventually, she’s able to see past them only to see her body, and that sight isn’t any better. She’s always been too thin. On the Isle, she grew up on small portions and often went to sleep hungry, and even though Auradon has food rich in fat and protein and she is dating the king who has access to every type of food, she could never gain weight. Her ribs are still visible through sickly skin, and in some areas, her blue veins pop out. Her waist is so small, a little bit wider than her neck. Her hip bones protrude in a way that genuinely scares her. The gap between her thighs is too big for her liking.

She looks at her face, the only part of her that survived the Isle unscathed, but that doesn’t say much. All of her features are sharp: eyes, chin, nose, jaw, cheekbones. Even her hair, now that Dizzy placed her hands on it. Sharp bangs, sharp ends, sharp color.

Her eyes dart from nose to shoulder to thighs to cheek to neck to arms, looking at every feature, and she realizes one thing: it’s not hers. It’s on her body, yes, but it’s not because of her. The scars were made by people and her features are from her mother’s genes. There’s not much she can do about it. Right?

She needs a change.

To change.

She needs to have something that’s hers.

To see something that’s hers.

She turns to the sink, hands combing through the cabinets underneath. She finally finds a small grooming kit filled with the standard razors, creams, and brushes. She still doesn’t know what half of the things in the kit are or what they do. She doesn’t see the point in knowing. She is a survivor which meant other things were more important than personal hygiene. She knows about the important stuff, the things that could be used as a weapon, but she knows what she needs to use right now.

The scissors are small, even in her hands. She can barely fit her knuckles through the loops. They’re special ones used for nails or cuticles or sewing or whatever, so they’re not right for what she wants to do, but she has no time to search for actual scissors.

Her hands work frantically, haphazardly chopping at the hair near her shoulder. She starts at the ends, but as she watches the strands fall into a pool near her feet, she abandons whatever delicacy she has. She’s huffing, hands shaking and fingers twitching. Through her hazy mind, she can see the danger in this situation. The _opportunity._

She pauses for a second, examining herself. Her hair is chopped, clumps of hair ending at different places. Some remain undisturbed at her chest, others are at her chin. Some have a straight cut, others are a diagonal point. But it’s not enough. It’s still the same body, the same color, the same scars.

Her eyes flicker to the reflection of the scissors then to her face. _So slick, so smooth, so sharp._

She looks at her bangs. No, not her bangs but under them. Her forehead with no bumps or wrinkles, a perfect canvas.

Without a second thought, she raises the scissors. To cut her bangs, of course.

The scissors fall from her hands, leaving behind red knuckles and red fingertips. She can feel it dripping down. Is blood supposed to be this runny?

She didn’t even know she screamed until Ben bursts through the bathroom door. “Mal?” he asks, scanning the room until his eyes land on her. She forces her arms to stay by her side and not attempt to hide her body. Mal is many things, but insecure isn’t one of them.

But Ben doesn’t even look at her body. Instead, his eyes focus on the bleeding cut just above her left eyebrow.

“What happened?” he asks, his hands reaching for the towel she carelessly threw on the floor. When he finds the driest corner, he gently pats it to the cut. Mal closes her eyes.

“Wanted to change.”

Ben hums. “Your hair?” She doesn’t say anything else. “Did your hand slip?” She doesn’t have to. Ben knows what she means. No one else will, but no one else matters.

The towel rises from her forehead and doesn’t come back, so Mal opens her eyes. She sees Ben in front of her, watches him drop the towel. His free hands move to her waist as they guide her to one of the steps descending into the bath. He sits her there, turning her so her back can face him. His hands leave her, and so does his body heat, and that’s when Mal starts to panic.

It’s as if Ben can sense it. He adds weight to his steps, the sound echoing through the empty bathroom, and says, “I think you should stick to magic instead of scissors,” so Mal can hear where he is, where he’s going, and where he will be. He comes back and a towel is draped over her shoulders. Then, his knees, his bare knees, are beside her hips, and it takes Mal a while to realize he’s sitting a few steps behind her.

He gently rests a hand on her neck, lightly pinching his fingers together. Her neck goes lax, and when his hand lightly pushes down, she allows her head to turn to the tile floor. His hands trail down, the heat seeping through the towel until he finally reaches her tailbone where the towel ends. He rests his hand there, palming the still-damp flesh. Mal moans, covering the initial sounds of _snip snip_.

She doesn’t feel the difference. She doesn’t really focus on her hair. She just focuses on Ben and his hand that slinks under the towel and ventures up her spine, his warm breath hitting her neck, his chest that slowly inches closer and closer to her back. Soon, the incredibly open and empty bathroom is filled with Ben - his scent, his breathing, his body. She feels confined in the most beautiful way.

Ben finishes too soon, and just like always, he seems to understand Mal’s sentiment because instead of pulling her to the mirror, he pulls her to him. Her head rests on his bare chest and his arms wrap around her chest. They sit there, staring at nothing as the leftover drops of water slowly dry up. Once there’s no water left anywhere, Mal finally stands. She waits until Ben stands, and she lets him lead her to the mirror.

It’s even worse than she imagined. It’s uneven, some parts having more hair and ending in a different place than other parts. To be fair, Mal didn’t dry her hair right, so it’s frizzy. She can’t see how it really rests, but that doesn’t stop a smile from spreading across her face. It’s wonderful and messy and ridiculous and _still_ not hers. It’s Ben’s, and she can’t pretend she has a problem with it.

The sight of them standing naked next to each other does something to Mal. She’s never really seen it before, but now she understands why everyone finds them so fascinating: they look like an incredible couple. There’s what everyone sees – strong features, compatible personalities, good height difference – but then there’s what’s underneath the front, the things only they can see that enlightens her. Mal’s pale skin complements with his tanned tone, his almost completely cleared body contrasting with her marked one. He only has a handful of scars, one stretching across his right thigh (from a bicycle accident when he was eight), another on his wrist (an accidental cut from a knife, _a slip of the hand_ ), another hidden behind his ear (he still doesn’t know how he got that one), another on his chest (from a rope burn he got from Uma that never healed).

Her hand reaches for that one, lightly rubbing against the dark skin. It’s still healing. She can feel the textural difference, the bump that separates dead skin from smooth skin. She can see it, a dark mark with a bright pink center. She stares at her fingers through the mirror, looking even paler against the mark, but she doesn’t miss the hitch in Ben’s breath. She winces, sliding her hand up his chest and resting on the back of his neck. It’s an awkward reach, so Ben leans down and kisses her shoulder. He slowly trails up to her neck, sometimes licking and nipping at her skin, and Mal watches it all through the mirror. Eventually, he makes his way to her face, lips touching her jaw, cheek, and temple. He locks eyes with her as he kisses her temple, dangerously close to the new and forgotten wound.

She turns away from the mirror and joins their lips.

She’s stared long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So funny story, I actually got the idea of this one because I burned myself while baking. My forearm touched the metal racks inside the oven. At first, it didn't seem so bad, but then it started getting purple and black and green and it had so many blisters, so I went to a health clinic and it turned out to be a second-degree burn. Oops.
> 
> Anyways, that was a while back, and now that it's healing, I was kind of fascinated by my scar. It still tender and slightly painful, but I like how it looks. It's like I can say it's a battle scar from fighting a gang of angry bikers and a shark, and people might believe me! Either way, my scar inspired me to write this.
> 
> Moral of the story: baking can lead to bar fights with bikers and sharks.


	6. Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s like an addict begging for his next dose, a prey baring his neck desperately for a easier death, and it’s pathetic. (Ben's p.o.v.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is slightly darker than what I’ve been writing (I know, right?), but I’m kind of obsessed with this idea. It was inspired by that scene when Ben roars and jumps off the boat into the sea during Descendants 2. There isn’t necessarily a specific time where this falls into, so go nuts on that. There is minimal accidental-self-harm and A LOT of dark thoughts. Ben goes slightly insane, and I love it.
> 
> So without further ado, here’s a pretty animalistic Ben!

He likes the feel of the curtains between his fingers, the ones in his bedroom that fall from the ceiling to the floor. So heavy, strong, tough. He likes how rough they are, how he can feel each seam and thread. He likes it even more when they tear apart with one jerk of his arms. He likes how easily he can tug, break the rod from the ceiling, and bring down 50-foot fabric. He likes the _thud_ when they fall to the floor, giving into Ben’s superior strength.

He loves how they smell like her, like dirt and rain. Earthy. With the entire palace fragranced with roses and perfume and Mrs. Potts’s cooking, her scent is a welcome change, and when she’s away, he clings to it. Usually, it on their bedsheets, and it stays long enough to hold him over until she returns. Then, there’s days when she’s away for a long time, so he switches to clothes, but those fade too fast, and he can work through one drawer in just one day. Thankfully, she comes back before he can finish all of them, and they make up for any time lost.

But she’s still away and her scent is gone. Gone. From everything. Bedsheets. Curtains. Clothes. Nothing. There’s nothing. Anywhere. She’s not here. Not anymore. So he tears them. Everything. They’re useless.

As he destroys any piece of worthless fabric, he thinks back to all the storybooks, the bedtime stories, the lies he was told about love. It was always painted as a beautiful experience, enriching the body, heart, and mind. No one ever warned him about what happened when love went away, the tearing withdrawal. He never thought it would be grinding his bones the way it does, that his mind and body would crumble until it was nothing but a shell, that he would turn into a mine that would set off with any touch, breath, or word.

God, what a _pathetic_ display. He would laugh at himself if he isn’t so wrecked. He’s a mess, tired from all the restless nights that have passed (16), hungry from malnourishment, hollow like an abandoned building. Still, he finds the strength to reach for a nearby table and throw it at the wall. It breaks, spilling pieces of wood throughout the room. It makes a terrifying noise and adds its own entropy in the world, but it’s. not. enough. He needs more.

So he reaches for a chair and throws it at the same wall. Then he grabs another chair and breaks that apart with his hands. He keeps one leg in his hands and swings that into his other furniture until it breaks apart. From there, he grabs random pieces of debris and hurls them randomly. One hit to his television sends pieces of glass sprawling across the floor. He stops for a moment to stare at it, huffing as his mind realizes how beautiful the dark shards look. It opens a door to so many opportunities, and as he looks around the room for more glass objects. There’s so many options, but Ben’s eyes focus on the window. The same window that was hidden by the curtains, the ones that once smelled like her.

He only sees red as he runs to the window. He doesn’t have a weapon, just his hands, and after a few excruciating hits, it shatters.

It’s painful. Not his hands. He doesn’t mind physical pain. It’s a permanent part of existing in the world he lives in, and he’s come to accept it, but this pain is relentless. It’s not as simple as simply digging out a small pebble of glass. The only thing he can do is run and hope to escape, but now he’s trapped in a corner. There’s nothing stopping it from leaking into every crevice of his body. It's inside of him, wriggling through each vein and slithering past every nerve. He is suffering. He is the embodiment of pain.

He is a king without a queen. He can’t go on with anything anymore. He can’t sign off on proclamations or take trips to neighboring countries or negotiate peace treaties. He can’t do anything without her by his side, and it _disgusts_ him. To think him, Ben, the son of Beast and Belle, King of Auradon, can be degraded to a sobbing mess because of one girl. He’s like an addict begging for his next dose, a prey baring his neck desperately for a easier death, and it’s pathetic.

He screams. It’s claws out, latching onto the sides of his throat and tearing its way out. He screams until he goes hoarse, until he truly feels nothing but pain throughout his entire body. His head is pounding, his hands are pulsing, his feet are bleeding, his legs ache, and now his throat. He sinks to the floor in the middle of the room, in the middle of the chaos. He’s huffing, and without any more distractions, his mind wanders back to her.

He needs her. Fuck, he needs her. He needs her in his arms. He needs to smell her skin. He needs to feel her soft hair. He needs to kiss her lips. He needs his teeth on her body. He needs her nails scratching his back. He’s tired. There’s nothing else to break, rip, or tear. He can only sit in the destroyed room and stare down at the glass shards embedded into his feet.

And as he watches the blood slowly pool around him, he can feel something break inside his head, a small promise that brings him joy. Purpose. He will tear the world apart inch by inch. He will burn the ground and murder anyone who has kept her from him. He will destroy everything, leaving behind nothing but bodies and dust. His hands will be drenched in blood. He will be a wild beast, an unstoppable force of nature. He can feel a growl building in his chest already. Curling his hands into a fist, he finds his nails digging into hands. Sharp. Ready. Determined.

_Where. Is. She._

“Ben?”

His head snaps up to his door, and there she is. Her eyes scan the room just once before landing on him. She drops her bags and makes her way to him, forcing any wreckage away from her path. When she’s close enough, just a few feet away, her scent wafts over to him. Dirt. Rain. Earth.

She’s _home_.

She’s finally next to him, sitting on his lap and threading one hand in his hair. Ben closes his eyes, relishing in the overwhelming feeling as she overloads his senses. And just like that, his insane desperation ends.

“Miss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the reaction I get on this fic will determine my next upload. I have a lot of ideas in my head, but one that stands out to be is a three-piece ficlet that is COMPLETELY darker than this one. If this gets a good response, then I will upload that one next. If it doesn’t, then I will upload something a bit lighter and then upload the ficlet later on.
> 
> So what do y’all think? Let me know! Thank you so much for reading! Have a nice day! Exclamation mark!


	7. Chains (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She likes seeing him in chains. More specifically, she likes seeing him chained against a moldy stone wall, naked and bleeding.
> 
> (A/U, Mal's p.o.v., Part 1 of 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I got an incredible response for my last chapter, so I decided to take things a little bit darker! This is an AU where Mal went through with her mother’s plan. So in the first Descendants movie, instead of battling against Maleficent, Mal allows her to take over Auradon. We've got Evil!Mal here and mentions of torture and all that fun stuff.
> 
> So this one is pretty short, but mostly because this is kind of an introductory piece. The second part is definitely longer than this and almost finished. I think I'll take maybe another two weeks until I post it, but don't take my word for it. I procrastinate waaaaay too much for my own good.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your kind words and support! I love each and every one of you, and I hope you like this fic. Enjoy!

For the future king of Auradon (or actual king? Did Mal stop the coronation in time? Well, there isn't an Auradon anymore, so does it matter?), Ben was _incredibly_ easy to break. It only took a few days of torture before he caved, and torture is a generous word. Mal was in the cell whenever her mother entered, and she watched every session, entranced by the show. It wasn’t anything beyond whips and knives, but her mother was always theatrical, and Mal had inherited that. With two creative minds working together...

She likes seeing him in chains. More specifically, she likes seeing him chained against a moldy stone wall, naked and bleeding.

She watched everything that was done to Ben, and she saw the exact moment he broke. She knew just when Ben would do _anything_ to prevent another moment of pain, and when she told her mother, all Maleficent did was smile and say, “He's yours.”

And he is hers.

Mal left him in his cell for a few more days with no food or water or outside contact. It was her own decision, one she made without any influence from her mother. Mal knew how fickle this part was, knew how one wrong action could tumble whatever power she held over him. After all, this was something Mal had experienced firsthand when she was a child. She knew Ben could turn into a mindless servant just as easily as he could become a hard-headed follower with too much independence. She just didn't know which one she wanted more.

She was the only other person he saw. She stuck with simple touches: caressing his cheek, trailing kisses on his chest, licking the open wounds on his back. She ran her nimble fingers over dirty skin, his mind undoubtedly racing with all the possibilities her fingers could have done. Instead, her pale hands performed wonders on him, all while relaying how easily the heroes were crumbling. The first time he came while sobbing, Mal knew Ben had changed. He turned from merely wanting the pain to end to wanting _Mal_ and whatever she had to offer him.

She unleashed a beast he kept hidden, something deep within him that craved blood and fire, a side that wants to raze the world to the ground.

Ben is a beautiful thing when he is broken. Completely wild, unfiltered, imperfect. He's nothing but teeth and claws, insanity and anger, not one ounce of Auradon left in him. It’s as if all of his parents’ teachings bled away, leaving only insatiable instincts.

Right now, he isn't satisfied by the pitiful efforts the heroes try to maintain. Instead, he wants to lead, wants to be a name that people listen to, wants to be someone who is just as predictable as he is mad, and Mal is fully prepared to take advantage of that.

And she does.


	8. Chains (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Happy endings don’t exist." It’s a reminder.
> 
> For him.
> 
> "Not for those who deserve them."
> 
> For her.
> 
> (A/U, Mal's p.o.v., Part 2 of 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually had free time today. I ACTUALLY finished all my pending work before it's due. I ACTUALLY got my shit together, so I was able to sit down and finish out this chapter. I'm so productive, y'all, and it honestly breaks my heart knowing that this little bit of peace will most likely be gone in a few days. Sometimes, I just hate myself and my procrastinating nature.
> 
> Oh well. Here you go! Part 2! Hope you like it! Thanks for reading!

“What would you do if I did let Harry become an advisor?” Mal says one day when they’re both sitting in adjacent chairs in the library. They’re the only two there, mostly because no one is allowed to browse Maleficent’s private collection, but even if they were, no one would be in the same room as Mal. No one but Ben, that is.

But even now, as her words hang in the air, she knows he would rather be anywhere else than in the same room as her. She can practically feel him burning with anger.

“I thought you said he would stay in the cell?” he hisses, and Mal has to bite her tongue to keep a mischievous smile off her face.

“Well, mom keeps bitching that he knows too much about the seas to be left to rot in the cells,” she mindlessly flips the page in her book, “and I agree.” She doesn’t. If anything, she would rather torture Harry herself, chain him up and expose him to conditions that rivaled Ben’s. The only difference is she would finish the deed, but Ben doesn’t need to know that. “But, of course, if it’ll affect the sanity of my pet...”

“Fight it,” he barks out without hesitation, “ _or else_.”

Her head snaps up to look at him. “Are you threatening me?” she asks, rising from her seat and taking heavy steps to Ben. Usually, this is enough to frighten Ben back into submission, but to her surprise, he stands up, towering over her lithe figure trying to be as intimidating as possible. But the three months he spent in the cells after the fall of Auradon had taken its toll on him. He’s bone thin, the muscle he once had from years of playing tourney practically nonexistent. His skin is sickly, paler than Mal’s. Then there’s his overall appearance, how he presents himself. His princely aura is gone. He’s nothing more than Mal’s toy now.

Which is why this sudden burst of confidence born from jealousy does nothing to deter Mal. If anything, it entices her to push him more, so she wraps one hand around his throat and brings him closer. She holds him to where their lips are shy of touching. With her fingernails digging into his neck, she relishes in the frenzied movement of his throat. He coughs, swallows, breathes so frantically, but it doesn’t show in his eyes. No, his eyes are filled with nothing but purpose.

“Not you. _Him_ ,” he hisses as if the thought of Harry is poison, and it may very well be. “What your mother did to me will look like fucking paradise compared to what I will do to him.”

And that broken response, a mixture of hatred and desperation, earns him a feral smile. She pushes him back into his chair, climbs onto his lap, and whispers into his ear, “Okay,” before biting the lobe.

* * *

It’s the first battle they lost, and Maleficent is furious.

It isn’t a huge loss. One of the posts in the Charmington was taken over, but that post was practically abandoned. There were no resources, and only a few soldiers were killed, the death toll not even reaching a hundred. It wasn’t as if the heroes had interfered with their trading routes or anything. The Isle will be perfectly fine without the post.

But Maleficent knows better. After all, she’s fought for evil before, and she knows how fickle war can be and how _funny_ fate is sometimes. It isn’t the fact that the villains lost but that the heroes won, and there’s nothing more dangerous than an opportunity. They’ll start getting cocky or, even worse, hopeful.

It’s also the first night Mal and Ben make love.

They don’t fuck hastily against the wall or on the table. Instead, Mal leads them into her chambers and falls onto the bed, and despite her mother’s words hovering over her, there is no urgency in her movements. Ben also takes his time, mapping out her body with his hands and mouth. He pinches and scratches, licks and nips every crevice possible, drawing out every moan, cry, and scream Mal has within her. Mal even reciprocates, climbing onto Ben with intentions different than riding him.

They spend most of the night discovering each other and the rest simply laying in each other’s arms. It’s the first time they’ve held each other like this, and a thought creeps past Mal that almost makes her heart stop. It isn’t until Ben says it that her heart actually does.

“I want us to stay like this forever.”

Mal knows the spell wore off. He said so the day of his coronation, so nothing is binding him to Mal anymore. Still, as they lie on the bed, sweaty bodies pressed together, Mal entertains the idea that maybe her spell didn't completely wash off. How else can she explain Ben’s emotions besides magic? A miracle perhaps. Or maybe it's just madness.

Who knows, but it doesn't matter because deep down, Mal knows this won’t last forever. This loss brings up the storybooks, the ones that nag at the back of her mind, the ones where, no matter what happens, good triumphs over evil, and it tells Mal they are heading to the same outcome. Maleficent will lose. Auradon will win. Ben will side with them over Mal any day. And they will live happily ever after.

So she won’t deny herself any longer. She will do whatever makes her as close to happy as possible and ruin Ben as much as she can, all in the name of…

 _Fuck_.

* * *

As always, Maleficent is right.

Ever since that battle months ago, the rebellion has only grown stronger. It will only take one leak of information, and the tides will shift, the tables will turn, and whatever fucking cliché there is out there.

Their relationship has also gotten out of control, and with the end coming, Ben is growing more desperate. Mal can see it. She sees him pacing around in her… _their_ bedroom, and she has never found him more attractive. She knows she should focus on the war at hand, but she hardly pays attention to his words. No, she admires his expression: the insanity seen as his eyes dart everywhere, the sharp outline of his locked jaw, his huffing and puffing chest, his beastly nature. He is so much more beautiful with hatred on his face.

She doesn’t listen to him until he asks it.

_Do you love me?_

She never expected him to actually ask her, but she supposes that’s her fault. After all, Mal is selfish. She singled out Ben from the beginning, saw his kind heart as a weakness she could manipulate, and made him hers whether he liked it or not. She can’t be mad now that he’s doing the same thing. And with the end in sight, he probably wants to end this with no doubts, to make sure this is as real to her as it is to him. He has the right to know.

Too bad he never will.

“That’s all primitive bullshit,” she all but spits out, and it makes her wonder if maybe her tone reveals what she’s trying so hard to avoid. If it does, it doesn’t satisfy Ben.

“Primitive,” he agrees, “but it matters to me.”

Yes, everything matters to Ben because that’s just the kind of person he is. Everything has a purpose and a reason and a chance. Everything is wonderful and correct and destined. Everything deserves opportunities and prosperity and faith. He cares about everything.

He just cares about the wrong person this time.

Or does he?

She strides to her desk, ripping apart the drawers, gathering any paper she thinks can be useful. Catalogues, records, names of officers, transcripts, spells. Her hands frantically tear apart her neat filing until there’s two piles: one overstuffed in manila folder and one overflowing mountain that’s sprawled across her entire desk

She knows Evie is a spy. One of the soldiers caught her one night escaping from Maleficent's room with a map of hidden magic traps in the outskirts of Charmington. Mal just happened to be walking by, studying an ancient Norse spellbook when she ran into them. The soldier made no hesitation of turning Evie in, endlessly running his mouth. Mal had to slice his throat to get him to stop bothering her.

That’s not all Mal knows. She knows enough - enough to bring the resistance to their knees, effectively dethrone her mother, and win the war. She knows it. Ben knows it, so she knows he'll understand that the contents in this folder will ruin whatever leverage the villains have.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Mal says, pressing the folder against Ben’s stomach. “You’re going to give Evie this. She’ll deliver it to the heroes. The heroes will win. You’ll be credited for giving them the winning information. Evie will be pardoned for whatever she did. You will be king. I will be killed. Everything will be as it should.”

“But,” he tries again, looking at her hand. It makes Mal want to laugh. He doesn’t even reach for the folder that contains the literal key to winning the war. No, he’s far too interested in Mal’s shaking hand. _Damn it_. “But I have plans.”

“When don’t you?”

“Plans for us,” he admits.

_Oh._

Mal shakes her head and swallows a lump in her throat. Before she can stop them, her hands are sliding to his chest, the abandoned folder falling to the floor. She rests them there, feeling the rapid pounding of his heart until it burns her hands. The words are on the tip of her tongue, and for a second, she opens her mouth and makes a sound. It’s a pathetic noise, one that luckily gets stuck in her throat and never fully comes out.

_So did I._

Instead, she yanks her hands away, glares at the folder on the floor, and says, “Happy endings don’t exist.” It’s a reminder.

For him.

“Not for those who deserve them.”

For her.

* * *

They’re in the tower, watching through the monitors as the heroes force their way through each floor. It was entertaining at first, watching them slaughter people Mal is (was?) supposed to call comrades, but at some point, Mal stopped seeing them as nuisances. Instead, they morphed into villains. Villains like her. The heroes are now two floors beneath them, and they’re coming after her.

“Does it bother you?” she asks. “Seeing them?”

Ben sighs. “No,” he says without hesitation, and it makes Mal turn her head to him.

They’re hiding in their bedroom, the lights turned off and the door locked - as if that would make a difference. Still, it calms her. The lack of lighting allows Mal to believe they're in a void, hidden away from the world that is drastically shifting around them. Evil is losing. Good triumphs once again. And instead of going down fighting, she is huddled in the corner with Ben’s arms wrapped around her, and she doesn’t want to be anywhere else. She’s fine with this, so is Ben. They’ve agreed when the heroes break through to their floor, Ben will turn Mal in and fight his way to Maleficent. He’s the only one who can kill her, after all, right after he forces Mal to break the enchanted lock on the door that holds Prince Phillip’s sword.

Mal never understood why her mother kept it. Mal would've burned the thing as soon as she got her hands on it, but Mal was always the logical one. Her mother ran on pride and ego, and how better to fuel it than to have possession of the only weapon that can kill her?

That will be Maleficent’s downfall, just like Ben is hers.

“You’re technically a traitor,” Mal muses. “You know that, right?”

He nods without turning away from the monitor. “They won’t.”

She hums, “No, they won’t. You heroes only see what you want to believe in.”

That’s when Ben turns to her, and he looks at her, and _sees what he wants to believe in._  His eyes dart across her face, linger on her lips, and finally land on her eyes. His are tired, red surrounding dark irises, darker bags underneath, but they’re still so kind and generous. They remind Mal of their date, filled not with Auradon but just of Ben, and she can't help but sigh at them.

At least she didn't completely ruin him. At least he'll have some type of sanity left after this. He'll live. He'll have a life after this.

Mal on the other hand...

“I would have done anything for you,” he murmurs against her lips, “even before you spelled me.” His breath fans across her face, and Mal has to close her eyes because the room is cold and dark and the heat Ben gives off is the only thing that can remind her she’s alive. For whatever limited time she has left.

But she doesn’t think about that. Instead, she focuses on his words, and relishes in the feeling they give her. To think that even a villain like her can be loved by a hero like Ben. Still, there’s something nagging her in the back of her mind that pulls her from the pure bliss of that though. It’s a feeling in the pit of her stomach, one that wasn’t there until Ben spoke. It bubbles in her for a while until she can place it: nostalgia, like she’s heard this before.

_I wasn’t faking anything._

Oh.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

And she supposes that’s as close to a confession they’ll ever have.


	9. Chains (Part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She deserves this, though, because even now, as she's sitting against a moldy wall she's chained to, the same position she forced Ben into almost a year ago, she doesn't regret anything she did.
> 
> (A/U, Mal's p.o.v., Part 3 of 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final part to Chains! Thank all of you for going through this small little ficlet with me. I’m so grateful for every kind word and comment, and I hope you love the ending (though, that’s kind of a cruel wish).
> 
> Enjoy!

He walks in, and Mal can’t hide the disgust from her face. He’s in that suit, the blue and yellow one he wore on the day they arrived. Who knew a king can reuse suits? Mal could’ve laughed at that if the damn suit isn’t so hideous. Those colors do not fit him. No, red is more fitting, but there isn’t any on him. One month has passed, so logically, that is more than enough time for wounds to fully heal. Maleficent didn’t even put up much of a fight, not enough to extensively damage Ben. He only received a few shallow cuts and superficial burns.

He’s gained weight. Not much, but it’s a noticeable difference. His hair is trimmed and combed neatly. Any stubble that he had on his face (Mal can still remember the feeling of it scratching against her thighs) is gone, leaving behind the same baby face he had before Maleficent’s rise.

But looks can only do so much. Mal can see the hardened expression, how his clenched jaw diminishes any type of appeal to his childish exterior, how his stiff shoulders make him appear twice as big as Mal remembers, how the fists by his side show just how serious he is. In his eyes, all she can see is hatred, but he isn’t looking at her. No, he’s looking at the chains binding her to the wall, and she realizes what that means.

“Execution?” His eyes flicker to her then back to the wall. Mal chuckles. “How medieval.” Ben doesn’t find it funny. If anything, it angers him more, and Mal can feel the shift in his demeanor. She can hear every thought that crosses his mind, see the change in his posture, and she knows his resolve is crumbling. Hers is too. They’re so in tune now, practically the same person. That’s what love does, she supposes, but why is he avoiding her gaze?

“What?” Mal spits. “Can’t stand looking at me?”

That's when he finally locks eyes with her, and _fuck,_  it does something to Mal. “I can get you out of here.”

“And why would you do that?” She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth. It opens a can of worms full of everything they left unspoken at the Isle. Words, declarations, hopes, dreams, plans. If she hears them, then there’s no telling what she would do. Kill him to stop hearing them. Run away with him to live them. She’s too weak to ignore them.

But thankfully, he’s too weak to say them. “Mal,” is all he says, but she’s still able to see it, the same broken man from a few months ago. The one who looked at her as if she was the sun. The one who was completely devoted and desperate for whatever she had to offer. The one who dared to believe their time together was something more than just a means to fulfill their basic instincts.

Because it was.

“Let me do something. Please.” His façade tears even more, and he’s never looked so beautiful before. Watery eyes, huffing chest, broken voice. It reminds her of the last night they spent together, when Ben couldn’t stop crying and Mal couldn’t stop shaking because they knew what would happen the next day.

Mal is shaking now. She tries her hardest not to, so while it doesn’t show, the rattling of her chains give her away. “Take care of yourself, Ben,” she says, turning her head to the hole in the wall, a pathetic excuse for a window. “Get help. I did a number on you.” She refuses to say anything else. No matter how much her body screams at her, she doesn’t stop Ben from walking away. When she hears the door open and close, she sighs.

That’s when she lets her body shake freely, and soon, she’s racked with sobs. This is a lot harder than she anticipated. On the Isle, she thought about this moment. Sparsely at first, just a thought she entertained to pass the time, but as the end drew closer, she thought about it every waking moment. She knew it would hurt, but she never believed it would be this _heartbreaking._

She deserves this, though, because even now, as she's sitting against a moldy wall she's chained to, the same position she forced Ben into almost a year ago, she doesn't regret anything she did. She can't. She still believes in her mother and the other villains. She knows the villains have been wronged time and time again, robbed of their own happy endings, and this is just another instance. The villains deserve happiness, and while now might not have been the right time, there will be in the future. Someone will succeed. It's what Mal grew up believing, and she'll die defending it.

And as she sits there, tears freely falling from her eyes, she can’t help but think of what could have happened if she had won, if, for once, fate had shined on the abused villains and offered them a chance of happiness. Maleficent would have ruled with an iron fist with Mal by her side, and when she passed, Mal would’ve ascended the throne with Ben by her side. Their affair would come to light, and everyone’s worst fears would come true. Their king had betrayed them, turned evil. Any rebellious thoughts would cease. Hope would die out, and Mal would be the leader of that dead world. Happily ever after.

Then, she thinks further back. What if she had just listened to Ben at his coronation, believed in his words, and fought against her mother? Her friends would’ve followed suit, and with all of Auradon at her side, then maybe they could’ve won. They could’ve been together. Ben would’ve ascended the throne with Mal by his side. They would have lived together, loving each other without any fear. Happily ever after.

 _Maybe in another life,_  she wistfully thinks before closing her eyes and waiting for something to happen.

Hours later, she regrets sending Ben away. Not because she regrets her actions (no, she did the _right_ thing for once) but because she’s curious about her punishment. She is certain it’s death. Ben wouldn’t have offered to break her out for any other reason. But in what way would she be killed? Do they have a specific spell for such an occasion? Will they truly go medieval and lynch her or maybe even stone her? Is it going to be by sword? Will there be a crowd? When will it be? Will they offer her a last meal, or is that too civil for her crimes?

She simply sighs and waits for the door to open again.

It never does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that’s it for this mini story! Someone, though, did say they would like to see it as a full story, and I’m playing around with the idea, so who knows? Not me because my mind is a fucking mess right now.
> 
> But I still have some one-shots. The next one I plan to upload is considerably more lighter. I think a shift in tone is necessary after this.
> 
> Thank you once again for your support!


	10. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His first memory of home is of her.  
> His last memory of her is of home.
> 
> (AU, Ben's p.o.v.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I said I was going to upload something lighter and happier, but that was shot to hell when I got this idea.
> 
> Some trigger warnings: rape (non-descriptive/hinted) and child abuse (non-descriptive/hinted)
> 
> Thank you. Enjoy!

**I.**

His first memory of home is of her.

Not his mom or dad, but her.

His parents are good people. It’s something everyone tells him, and he doesn’t understand until the day they bring Bertha home.

His parents explain what happened, but Florian’s young mind can’t understand it. All he knows is Bertha’s mom wasn’t good at being a mom, so his mom will be Bertha’s new mom, and Bertha’s his new sister.

He runs to her with open arms, but his mother stops him (“Careful! See those black spots on her? That means she’s hurt, so I need you to be extra safe around her. You can hurt her by accident.”), so instead, he holds out his hand. His dad does this all the time, so that must mean it’s okay.

Bertha stares at it for a minute before she finally, slowly moves her hand. Florian grabs it, shakes it, and just stares. Stares at her eyes because even behind the bruises, he can see they are impossibly green.

And that’s how it all starts. That moment sets the stage for the next fourteen years of his life. From then on, they are Florian and Bertha, taking on life together, tumbling through the thick and thin to come out on top.

At least, until reality starts to overtake him.

**II.**

She loves drawing. It’s something he notices when he’s five. The fifty-six pack of crayons are glued to her side, and any surface becomes her canvas. Notebook paper, napkins, magazines, school desks, and bedroom walls; it doesn’t matter. She never stops creating.

Florian has no interest in drawing. He prefers the building blocks, stacking them until they’re a skyscraper that rivals the ones his father’s company builds.

**III.**

It takes him a couple of months afterwards to understand the actual magnitude of her artwork. She spins magnificent drawings from mundane colors and create lifelike portraits, all of which are breathtaking. While the other kids (like him) are struggling with stick figures, her portraits are breathtaking. He hears the word “prodigy” thrown around more than once, and the teachers applaud her every move.

He doesn’t understand the beginnings of jealousy he feels in his chest. All he knows is he wants to break every single crayon in the world.

**IV.**

Her first national art win is near the end of seventh grade. She draws someone Florian has never seen before. She has black horns and purple lips and an intimidating staff. In the background is a dragon breathing green fire, but overlapping it all is a faint portrait of Bertha.

It’s hanging above the doorway of Bertha’s room. They stopped sharing a room in the fifth grade, but Florian could never be too far away from her, so he moved out to the room right across the hallway from her. He’s passes by it every day, and every day, he finds something new about it. Today, he discovers a quality to it that he can feel more than he can see. He swears he can almost taste the pain that comes from it, working its way into his veins and melting into his blood.

Who is this lady? Why is there a dragon? And fire? Why green and purple and black?

It’s then that he realizes how little he knows of Bertha.

**V.**

Freshman year is their year.

It’s the year they try alcohol for the first time in front of their parents – white wine in a fancy Italian restaurant.

It’s the year he discovers his talent for football. After that, he stays after school practicing until it was night, clothes dirty with sweat and grass stains.

It’s the year she discovers the counselor, Mrs. Faemather, gives her special access to the art room. After that, she stays after school painting, coming home with ink on her clothes.

It’s her year of “Mal” and not Bertha.

It’s his year of “Ben” and not Florian.

It’s her year of purple hair.

It’s his year of blue suits.

It’s her year of Evie and Jay and Carlos.

It’s his year of Chad and Doug and Lonnie.

It’s her (long) year of Harry.

It’s his (too long) year of Audrey.

It’s the year when everything starts to change. While ~~Ber~~ Mal grows a new artistic outlook, Ben discovers universities on the east and west coast that were more than willing to accept a football star and the son of a business magnate.

It’s the year they start to grow apart.

**VI.**

They are at the lake, the same one where they used to run around and play hide and seek as kids. Now, Ben lightly treads across the water while Mal fiddles away with her sketchpad, eating her way through a bunch of strawberries.

She applied for the local community college down the road. It’s safe and quaint – paint peeling off the walls, the gray carpet frayed from years of use. Evie, Jay, and Carlos will also be attending, their familiar antics lining the hallways yet again.

He applied to five Ivy Leagues and got accepted into all of them. Dartmouth, Yale, Stanford, Brown, and Colombia. The only thing now is to accept one of their offers. Even though his dad is pushing for his alma mater, Colombia, Ben’s still unsure. He’s basing his decision on how close he wants to be to home, and he isn’t sure those schools are close enough. The turmoil was eating him alive. He hardly stepped out of his room, and when he did, his parents always commented on the dark smudges under his eyes. They wouldn’t shut up until Mal dragged him to the lake for the weekend packed with food, water, and a tent.

He makes her way over to her, and when he reaches the ruins she’s sitting on, he folds his arms over the edge and rests his chin on them. He stares at her, back hunched over a sketchpad, for a long time, too content to do anything else.

“At least you’ll get to leave this place,” she mutters.

She doesn’t look up, and it kills him a bit because he really wants to see her expression. “But you’re brave, Mal,” he says.

“But you’re leaving,” her pencil stops moving, “and never coming back because who the fuck would ever stay in a place like this? High school’s almost over and you’ll be gone and I’ll…”

It’s then that he starts to hate her. Sure, she’s brave. She wears leather and graffities the school cheats her way through grade levels, but she’s going to stay even though she can leave. Because Mal has what Ben doesn’t – talent. Sure, he has the grades and the football record and the right background for Ivy Leagues, but Mal… Her art is alive, beautiful. She sees the world as he does: a disgusting sham of politics. Only, she tries to make it better. She paints color in its black-and-white cracks, breathing a new life into it. It makes their town bearable. Anyone can see it. Him, their community, college admissions groups.

She _can_ leave. She just _won’t_.

In the end, she may be brave but not brave enough to leave with him, and he hates her for it.

**VII.**

Harry drops by the house one night halfway through the second semester of senior year. He begs to talk to Mal for a few minutes, so she gets into his car and they drive off.

She comes home the next morning with bruises, torn clothes, and blood dripping down her thighs.

**VIII.**

She doesn’t speak to anyone about it. His mom tries to comfort her – running a hot bath and making tea – while his dad tries to convince her to file a report. She refuses to, and the incident simply fades away in time.

They don’t see her like Ben does, though. It’s after midnight, and he arrives home early from prom. The house is quiet, his parents still at the school’s courtyard as parent volunteers. As he sneaks his way to his room, he sees her door is open a crack, and when goes to shut it, he sees her lying on her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. On the floor were broken pieces of paint brushes and pencils. The drawings she once had taped to her walls are stuffed into a cardboard box.

So Ben does something reckless for the first time of his life.

**IX.**

The woods are silent and peaceful, the only sounds coming from leaves that rustle when the wind picks up and the branches Ben breaks. He throws them into a pile until it resembles a bonfire. He swipes the box from Mal’s hand. It’s a bit heavy, filled with material objects that hold no weight to him, but this isn’t about him. He drops the box carelessly to the ground by his feet and reaches into his pocket to pull out a lighter. Chad left it in his room, too stoned to remember to take it, too lazy to ask for it back afterwards.

He holds it out to her. She takes it.

Their fire is high but controlled, fed by crumpled items from the box into the fire: clothes, pictures, paintings. They take turns throwing them until the box is empty. If Ben is more artistic like Mal, he’d think that this moment is some sort of metaphor for finally taking charge of their futures and not letting their circumstances decide how their lives play out.

What a load of bullshit.

“I’m pretty sure this is how forest fires start,” she says, and Ben turns to her.

The clouds cover the moon, leaving the woods dark spare for the fire they created. Mal is positively glowing, her face illuminated by the orange flames. A bead of sweat rests along her hairline, and Ben can feel himself sweating too, but all he can focus on is how _good_ Mal looks.

She reaches into her purse, pulling out one of the expensive bottles of alcohol they swiped from his parents’ stash. She uncaps a bottle of vodka, takes a swig, then dumps some onto the fire. The fire roars, almost burning Mal’s arm in the process, but she does nothing more than hold out the bottle to Ben. It’s almost impossible for him to say no.

He drinks, pours, and gives. It’s their routine until they finish the bottle. As they stand there, Mal slips her hand into his and grips it tightly. He doesn’t question it, nor does he question the tears.

Because he cries too.

**X.**

Because he thinks back to when they were both six. They still shared a room, and one day after school, Bertha was sketching him, biting her upper lip in concentration. “Stop moving,” she demanded without looking up. Florian immediately obeyed. It didn’t matter that the sun was out and he wanted to go swimming. As long as Bertha’s hand kept erasing, shading, filling her sketchpad with thick, sweeping lines, Florian would not move. Not until she was done.

“I love drawing you,” she confessed in a rare moment of honesty.

“Why?”

Bertha just shrugged. “You’re different than me.”

Immediately, he knew what she meant. He sat there on the bed, feeling the blood pound into his ears, and then he let himself float, let his mind go blank. It wasn’t the physical discoloring of their skin (his: sunkissed, hers: pale) or the scars that they had (his: literal, hers: figurative) **.** Instead, it was the way they acted that drew a fine line – while Florian was calm and patient, willing to work towards whatever he wanted, Bertha leapt into situations, blazing a self-destructive path and burning whatever bridges lay in her way.

He went numb as she stood up and shoved the pad into his hands to let him see the monsters that came alive on the paper. She flashed him a smile (a smile, not a smirk), and ripped the artwork out of his hands only a second later.

“I’m going to show Belle and Adam.”

It was then that Florian and Bertha started to grow up.

**XI.**

Ben wakes up on the cold ground. Mal’s right next to him, curled into a ball with his tuxedo jacket draped over her. It’s still nighttime and, because they left the fire unattended, dark.

With the flames now gone, the woods feel significantly colder, so Ben gets up and carries Mal to his car. He lays her across the backseat, cracks the windows open, and closes the car. He sits outside with his back against the driver’s door, finishing a bottle of brandy.

**XII.**

Mal drives them home.

They don’t speak the following two weeks.

**XIII.**

Ben leaves Friday morning.

Mal comes knocking on his door Wednesday night.

Three light knocks, then a whisper, “Ben?”

He can’t get to the door fast enough. “What’s wrong?” he huffs, ready to hurt or help in any way he can.

But she doesn’t say anything. She hesitates. Even as Ben holds open the door, she refuses to step over the threshold, she he gently grabs her wrist and pulls her in. He tries to ignore her flinching when he closes the door.

He never lets go of her wrist.

She never takes it away.

He pulls.

She grabs.

They fall into his bed, and it’s…

Perfect.

At least until the morning birds start to chirp.

The sun is barely rising, the sky colored a hazy blue, but Mal is already dressed and walking to the door. And he almost lets her leave it like that. Almost.

“I love you, Mal,” he says hoarsely. He can’t face her. Instead, he just stares at his ceiling. “More than anything else.” He hears nothing for a second, then footsteps, and as he hears the door slamming shut, he lays there wondering why his eight words hurt so much.

**XIV.**

His last memory of her is of home.

He kisses his mom and dad, swearing to miss them. He promises to call even though he knows he will conveniently forget. He also promises to come down for Thanksgiving break, but he’s already looked at his football schedule and he knows he has a game that week. He won’t come on that holiday or any holiday really. For now, though, he says he will. He’ll let time drift him away.

Mal's standing off to the side, arms folded, so Ben breaks away and cautiously steps towards her. “Bertha,” he jokes, and he sees how they were years ago before he knew a thing about how the world works.

“Florian,” she says back, extending her hand between them. Ben ignores it, pulling on her arm and catching her up in a hug instead. Maybe it’s just his imagination, but he feels a twinge of longing between them that he's never felt before. It makes it almost impossible to pull away, but he does, and her eyes... did they always have those gold specks?

"Bye Mal,” he says quietly before turning towards his car. He looks down the road at the thousands of miles separating them. He will drive two hours to the nearest airport. He will fly nine hours to California. He will drive another hour to the campus. Stanford. On the other side of the country.

Not far enough.

He hesitates only for a second before unlocking the door and getting in. He starts the car and backs away down the road, tuning the radio to a random station. He isn’t paying attention to what station. Instead, he stares at Mal through his side mirror until she's just a speck, blending in with the dirt from the road and the grit of everything around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say that when I first started this collection, I thought to myself that I would never write a fic where Ben and Mal don’t end up together because I cannot imagine them not ending up together.
> 
> Oh how wrong I was.


	11. Oceans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wakes with the taste of salt on her lips and screams in her head. (Mal's p.o.v.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Back at it again with the slightly depressing fics!
> 
> So this isn’t as sad as my other ones and it’s not as fluffy, but there’s a lot of characterization. I focus on Mal, her backstory, and the aftermath of the second movie. This occurs almost immediately after the end, and I haven’t read any of the novels, so this may not be canon-compliant. Or it could be. I wouldn’t know, I haven’t read the novels.
> 
> Anyways, I want to thank you for your kind words. You have no idea how happy and how relieved I am whenever I read one of your comments. I hope you continue to like what I have to offer.
> 
> Thank you! Enjoy!
> 
> UPDATE 08/02/18: So someone asked me to describe my writing process for this fic, so I wrote it down at uploaded it. If yall want to read my ramblings, then here's your chance!

She wakes with the taste of salt on her lips and screams in her head.

It’s odd, dreaming of him. It’s not like her normal dreams – which are more like watching an old, broken recording – but more like she is _him_ , feeling both sensation and emotion through him. She hates it, hates knowing he has control over every aspect of her, including her subconscious.

But she copes. Mal is nothing if not resilient. The grit and isolation of the Isle did not destroy her, and neither will the dreams of a monster.

This time, it was the ocean. She was there on his ship and the whole thing had splinters all over the railing; couldn’t climb in, couldn’t climb out. The only thing that got in was water, spilling over from the sides as the waves threw them back and forth. Her feet were getting wet. She was wearing boots, but she could still feel it. There were wild yells coming from her, _him_. All she saw was a wheel, a hook, and a storm on the horizon.

Mal’s never been to the ocean. She’s been to the lake, the one where Ben took her on their first date, the one she didn’t want to go on, the one he talked her into going, the one that lived up to its name. She’s never been on a ship. She was on a boat last night, the one he used to navigate the waves of her abandonment, the one they stood on when she told him she loved him, the one that kept her afloat as she started to lose whatever bravado she had. But it was worth every moment of humiliation when she saw his smiling mouth and excited hands. He was so happy, so fucking happy because of her.

Now, she can’t even remember how he looks. All she sees is her dreams of Harry and his ship in the ocean. On the enchanted lake. Right there on the soft bed of her dorm, wet tears trailing down her cheeks.

She’s back in her body. Evie’s heavy breathing, the rumble of the air conditioner, fireworks still crackling in the background – anchor dropped. She’s in Auradon in her bed and she has to piss. And she’s thirsty. That’s what that dream means. She needs water.

* * *

_The barrier was confining, no questions, but it was also fascinating. She knew magic. She might’ve never casted it but she could feel it swirling in her body, green potential begging to be utilized. It made her restless – fingers twitching, lips curling, words balancing on the tip of her tongue. She would walk around the entire edge of the island, counting her steps as she went. Her surroundings would constantly change, from alleyways to forests to mountains, but the view distorted by the gold barrier stayed the same. Blue._

_She touched it when she was four, expecting to feel something. A zap, a shock, a jolt that somehow unlocked the confinement of her magic and allowed her to cast spells so she could go to her mother and tell her and her mother would smile and tell her how proud she was and she was lucky to have a daughter like her. All she felt was a hard surface._

_She touched the barrier three years later, her back flat against the surface as she looked at the alleyways surrounding her. Five: one of them was occupied by Uma, three of them were occupied with her friends, one was open. Mal had a higher chance of escaping if she took one of the alleys. If she ran into Uma, then at least it was one-against-one. But what would her mother say if she saw Mal running away because she was scared of getting hurt? What would be worse – fighting off a crazy bitch with a sword or returning to her mother and getting those wounds from her? She learned that day blood could pass through the barrier._

_The third time she touched it was accidental. She was walking through the forest, hunting a rabbit when she actually ran into it. She had never felt more stupid in her life before, but hunger makes a teenager stupid. And angry. And irrational. Which is why she thought it was a good idea to throw the only knife she had to the barrier in a fit of rage. She expected it to bounce back, to maybe even hurt her as a result, but instead, it flew through and plopped into the ocean. It resurfaced for a few seconds before sinking under the surface and vanishing. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen._

_And she wanted to be next. She wanted to vanish. But above everything else, she just wanted to touch it. She’d never touched salt water before. The docks were Uma’s territory, and Mal wouldn’t risk starting another feud just to feel the open wounds sting from the salt, to feel her body sway with the waves, to feel her senses numbing as she sunk lower and lower under the surface. Would her troubles wash away? Would her lungs burn for air? Would she see fish? Would she see her knife? Would she be able to differentiate the ocean water from her friends’ tears?_

_She just wanted to touch it. She just wanted to touch it. She just wanted to-_

_The tips of her fingers breached the barrier. They actually passed through the gold wall, and while her eyes might’ve been playing tricks on her, there was no denying the tingling sensation on her fingers. Magic._

_What would her mother say?! How could she-_

_She felt a shock, finally felt one, and retracted her hand. She cradled it to her body, hissing through clenched teeth for only a second before she realized what she did. Her hand immediately shot back to the barrier. It was hard, harder than what she remembered._

_She screamed._

_It wasn’t until she was on her cot that night that she realized why the barrier had opened itself to Mal. She wanted to die – her, a villain, wanted to die and the barrier, a method that prevents villains from ever coming to Auradon, was happy to assist her. One less villain to worry about._

* * *

It isn’t as chaotic as she thought the morning after would be, but everything isn’t okay either. The cameras are still there, ready to record any word that might give them their next headline. Nothing really changed, except Ben’s there in one camera flash and escorting her away the next. He dismisses the media, and they listen, and she listens as he leads her to the woods. The walk is quick, and before she knows it, she’s pinned against a tree; it’s better than being crowded by microphones.

It would’ve been better if she was the one pinning him against the tree, or one of the graffitied walls on the Isle. Being pinned against the bed was better, and Ben firmly gripping her hips and turning her around?

She should’ve stuck with that. She should’ve stayed here. It’s not like there was anything better for her on that shitshow of a home. Here, it’s working out, and it’s so good. No place she can sink in – just Ben and the trees and the ground.

She hears a running creek nearby.

* * *

_It was what he represented that first drew Mal to him. She was 12, too old to have her first boyfriend, especially when people like Evie already had seven by then. He was suitable – weird enough to be intriguing, insane enough to be respected, handsome enough to overlook all of his other qualities. And he singled her out, chose her when no one even dared to look at the daughter of Maleficent. That was as close to love a villain would ever get._

_They would spend their days wreaking havoc on the Isle and nights on the remains of his father’s ship, now just a pathetic piece of driftwood. Mal hated the thing_ (the smell of rotting wood still lingers with her) _, but the sight of Uma’s face as Mal walked through the docks was worth spending the entire night there._

_His eyes – the lashes that flutter against her cheek as they move. It was always his eyes turning to find her, and when they found her, they challenged her. Dared her. Held her under the current. Swept her into his tidal waves. Drowned her. Harry was a broken dam, water flooding all over the place and sweeping her in and out. His hands – the fingers that roamed over her body under a ripped sack that passed for a blanket. The moonlight was bright enough to see the outline of his body, dark enough for her to pretend she was with someone else. A prince some nights, a merman on others._

_Her time with him was near magical. It wasn’t enough to stay with him, though._

_She was so close. The closest she’d ever been was when she stood on a plank one night. Harry was still sleeping, thousands of miles away from her, but the ocean was right there. Right below her. Just a step away. She just needed to take it. Just walk. Walk. Walk and swim. Or float. Or sink. She was so close..._

_But she didn’t. Instead, she turned and walked away, off the ship. After that, she only stayed deep in the island – right in the center of all the chaos, right in her mother’s shadow. But that didn’t stop her from dreaming about the ocean._

* * *

She knows it’s going to happen. She’s seen it over and over again, the blood and the crying and the bruises and the breaking and the screaming. She knows it’s going to happen, and it does. And when she does it, she realizes that the waiting is the worse part – worse than bleeding and the pain and the noise. It’s waiting for Ben to see what she’s done.

The seconds between her staring at the Ben and him moving from the doorway should’ve felt like forever, but she finds she’s always been ready for this moment.

He’s beside her in an instant.

* * *

 _She’s in her mother’s arms, snow falling on her head. No – ash. There’s fire. They’re arguing_ over _her, not_ for _her, but she didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to fall off. It wasn’t that she was afraid (she was too young to be afraid); she just wanted to feel it, feel her mother’s warm arms shield her from the cold words her father keeps shooting at them. She could do it. She could hold still enough to keep her mother happy. Maybe this would be enough._

_It wasn’t._

* * *

He’s there with a towel, saying her name over and over. Mal can’t stop looking at the floor, the newly-cleaned floor that she’s sure the maids had cleaned while she was showering. Or maybe Ben cleaned.

Her ears are ringing. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he whispers and looks at her. She tries to smile. Her eyes break a little. Fuck, not this again. Not now. She sniffs hard, looking down. There’s nothing to cry about.

_I’ll give you something to cry about._

_A flame. A sword. A hook. A knife. A barrier._

_The ocean._

Shove it back. Shove it back.

“Mal?”

But there’s nowhere left to shove it.

* * *

_It’s quiet. It’s never been this quiet. Usually, there was someone shouting a thousand questions at her, but no one knew she’s here. No one saw her climbing her purple scooter, wearing her leather jacket over a dress, placing a helmet on her head, driving across the bridge. She looked straight ahead, then down._

_Wide water, wider than anything she could imagine, spreading forever on all sides. Cold. Full of fish and seaweed – sharp knives, smooth blood. Maybe she’ll explore it someday, figure out what washed up and what stayed buried._

_Probably not._

* * *

The bedsheets are cool against her skin. Her head still feels like it’s going to split open if she moves too fast, but with Ben hugging her, she isn’t going anywhere, not even when everything hurts.

She sighs, “You taste like the ocean.”

“How would you know?”

She tries to laugh, but those tears are back in her eyes. She closes them, but she can still feel Ben finding her – fingers wiping at her cheeks, lips brushing against her temple. His arms wrap around her, holding her above the surface. Just like at the lake.

“I just do.”

He squeezes her. Hard. Hard enough to break her. Then he slowly presses his lips to hers. Gentle.

“You taste like rain.”

She just wants to pass out, but she can’t relax. Not with Ben there with his skin on hers – chest flushed against her back, head in her neck, hand on her thigh, mouth by her ear.

“Don’t leave again.”

Outside there’s still fireworks. Far, far away. High in the sky, as high as she flew last night.

“I won’t.”

She dreams of clouds.


	12. Psychedelic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She only sees a kaleidoscope. (Mal's p.o.v.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't plan on uploading this early, but I got inspiration for this one that kicked the fic I was actually planning on uploading next out of the lineup. I started writing today and in about two hours, I finished it! And I LOVE THIS ONE GUYS! SO I HOPE YOU DO TOO!

* * *

1.

* * *

She is five. She understands her life is buried underneath the ruins of a revolution. It’s her father, laying by the door and staining the floor. She’s sitting in the center of the room between the doorway and the throne, her father and her mother. Buridan’s ass – she learns later. Monotonous skies, smearing red blood, glowing green eyes, the colors swirl in her mind. She’s only five, but she understands.

* * *

2.

* * *

She is cold. The room is wide, open, and empty, the concrete walls doing nothing to block the cold air. They’re barren – white, an open canvas.

But she knows better. With a purple spray-can in her hand, she paints over the black lines, the sludge that taints the pristine walls in a way she can never erase. Only imitate. She suffocates with the fumes, death filling her eyes. It’s her favorite sensation.

* * *

3.

* * *

She is strong. Quick, sharp, calculated. Feared. The sound of her boots hitting the ground turns heads, all of them staring at her plump lips. Moths drawn to a flame.

She glides across the square, manipulation beaten into her bones. She is respected – more than history respects her mother, more than she respects her father. The memory of both disintegrate as she rises.

She arches into his hands, every night a different pair, and she doesn’t stop until she’s flushed and burning. Red. It’s a color she never wears but never stops seeing.

* * *

4.

* * *

She is tired. Lying on her bed, eyes closed, she can’t remember today. She only sees a kaleidoscope.

Neon pulses of music, the pink smell of fresh flowers, white rays in a bright sky. She cherishes it, clings to it, but even in the chaos, she hears the hum of the Isle. Brown grit hovering over blue.

White flashes. She sees him, feels her own lips curling. She knows how to use what she’s never felt. Curiosity. It’s what he’s expressing, what she’s mimicking. His proud voice booms over the craters and canyons she can never cross. It’s something she’s never seen. The rippling of his colors confuses her, but he’s gone with another flash.

Dark. Night. Creeping throughout the open floors of the museum, _sneaking out before they can see her_. She’s elegant in both situations, graceful in leather as she runs through marble floors and _uneven concrete_ , climbs stairs and _buildings_ , avoids sirens and _crimes_. Danger, a color she understands so well.

* * *

5.

* * *

She is numb. Empty. As weightless as the wooden spoon in her hand. He loves her.

She feels like screaming, but she knows no one will answer. He won’t. And she doesn’t want anyone else. She just wants his approval, wants him to push her into a bed and take what he wants. She wants him to be what she’s used to, black and red. Black and blue.

She’s trapped in a void. Black and white and deep; so deep, she pretends it’s her mother’s blood. Her blood now. Always has been. Maleficent’s daughter. She is evil, part of a legacy wrapped in purple, blue, red, white. Black.

The chocolate batter encourages her. Her green namesake reminds her.

Buridan’s ass – she learned it last week.

* * *

6.

* * *

She is breathing. Clean air, nothing like the thick pollution she suffocated on but welcomed just the same. Her eyes dart around the church; dresses, glass, energy. Red, yellow, blue, green, orange, purple, brown, black, pink, grey, white. She sees it all.

Then doesn’t when he steps in front of her, holds out a hand. His eyes hold her own, cold and hot. Absolute Zero and Planck Temperature.

He’s everything. A black hole, a real repercussion sucking everything into his void with no reason or mercy. A white hole, a hypothetical feature erupting matter and energy with no terms or worth.

He’s nothing.

Max-Entropy – another word for nothingness, the color of light. Light – hungry for anything, for everything.

She has nothing to give, but that doesn’t stop her from taking Ben’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So? What did you think? Usually, I'm not a "leave your thoughts here!" type of girl, but I'm actually anxious to hear your thoughts. Did you like it? Hate it? Did you get it?
> 
> Leave your thoughts here! Ha.


	13. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by RagingDrunkElephantInTheRoom: “One hand has the name of their soulmate, the other has the name of their saltmate.” (Ben’s p.o.v)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got this request from RagingDrunkElephantInTheRoom. The prompt was, “One hand has the name of their soulmate, the other has the name of their saltmate,” and my mind started RACING with the possibilities. I had another thing that I was going to upload, but this pushed that idea out the window.
> 
> And honestly, I love this one. It’s completely different than how I first thought it would be. I hope y’all love it!
> 
> So here y’all go! Hope you like it, and thanks again RagingDrunkElephantInTheRoom!

Ben gets his first name at the age of three.

He’s heard of the markings. Of course he has. It’s all anyone in his preschool class is talking about. It’s the story Fairy Godmother always tells. Every month, the children will sit on the soft, green carpet of the library with a warm, homemade chocolate chip cookie and a tall, cold glass of milk surrounded by a sea of books. And every month, Fairy Godmother will glide in, smile at the mix of children that were either in the middle of a sugar rush or in need of a power nap, and reach for the same leather book: the one that contained the true fairytales promised to the children in their near future, the one that was worn down at the edges and had a few pages torn, the one that never seemed to get old.

(The one that Ben was _soo_ over. He was more of a King Arthur kid. Who doesn’t like magic and knights and fights?)

So yes, he’s heard of the markings. The names that suddenly appear and permanently stay on the small piece of skin on your hand under your two thumbs. One contains the name of your soulmate, the person you’ve been matched with by the Heavens, and the other the name of your saltmate, the person who brings you nothing but pain. No one knows which one is which, but that’s _the wonder of it all_ according to his mother.

Ben doesn’t care. At least, not until he gets his first name.

It’s the first time he meets Audrey. Formally, that is. They’ve had playdates as babies, but the distance between Auradon and Auroria soon became too great for new parents to travel, so their acquaintanceship fizzled. Until now, at least. They’re at Auradon, in the throne room, when Aurora and Phillip arrive, Audrey in tow. She’s walking by herself, but she makes sure she’s slightly covered by her mother’s dress. It’s the shiest Ben has ever seen her.

Their parents bow, curtsey, then hug. Always with the formalities, which is exactly how they raised Ben and Audrey. He bows; she curtsies. Then Ben holds his right hand out. She’s too unfamiliar for a hug, and she seems to understand because her stiff shoulders relax slightly before she takes his hand.

Ben doesn’t feel it at first, but soon, the small burning sensation draws his attention. Their parents are deep in conversation, so they don’t say anything when Ben rudely snatches his hand rubs it. Audrey pouts, but he hardly pays attention to her. Instead, he focuses on the ink appearing on the skin under his thumb: a small dark patch of letters spelling _Audrey_ , a beautiful calligraphy full of swirls and wings, the exact same font the words “Once Upon a Time” are written in. Immediately, Audrey squeals and points at his hand, something her mother chastens her for until she sees the markings.

It takes their parents mere minutes to agree to a betrothal. He spends those minutes wondering which one Audrey is – soul or salt.

* * *

When Audrey’s nine, she gets her names. Ben on her left, Chad on her right.

He spends the rest of his nights wondering which one he is – soul or salt.

* * *

_On average, most people get their names at the age of eight. Some are early bloomers, getting their names at six. Others are late, getting it at ten. By the age of twelve, however, both names should be imprinted on both hands in lettering that represents the person and the individual’s relationship with that named person._

At the age of three, Ben is a legend. All across Auradon, people have heard of Ben – the son of kindhearted Belle and profound Adam who is the youngest person on record to receive the name of their soulmate. The story travels the lands, everyone speaking of how Ben and Audrey’s love is so strong, so true that it defies magic itself.

At the age of thirteen, Ben is a myth – the boy who is so pure that he only has a soulmate and no saltmate. They start speaking of his coronation (still three years to go) and how his reign will bring upon a golden era of peace.

And for a sweet, foolish moment, he believes them.

* * *

He makes the mistake of looking out at the window, the one that gives him a perfect view of the Isle, and he wonders if the villains get markings.

And then he calls himself stupid. Of course they can. It’s been captured and recorded and, although it’s nothing but a rumor to others, Ben knows of a villain so terrible that she only has the name of her saltmate.

And Ben only has the name of his soulmate. What does that say about him?

He knows how privileged he is. He’s never been oblivious to that. He knows of the water crisis in Camelot Heights and the scarcity in Summerlands. He’s met elderly people who have never met their soulmate but refuse to give up hope. He remembers the memorials of people his age and younger who met their saltmate first and couldn’t see the point living with their torment.

With his belly full, Audrey’s name on his right hand and his other hand blank, Ben is grateful for how privileged he is. But its moments like this that remind him privilege isn’t necessarily something he should be proud of. As he looks out at the window to the Isle of the Lost, a place devoid of magic where the villans might know their destinies but their innocent children don’t know their soulmate and treat everyone as their saltmate, Ben feels guilty. It’s in that moment that he makes a decision.

And a few moments later, he regrets making it.

* * *

He comes of age in a few weeks, and at this point, Ben has given up on finding his saltmate.

He doesn’t understand why he wants to find them, or at least he pretends he doesn’t. He pretends the nights don’t happen – the nights he spends crying, biting down on his pillow so he doesn’t scream in frustration. Of course they don’t happen. He’s kind. He’s profound. He’s perfect.

He hears the band playing, and at that point, he zones out. Diplomacy is something he excels at, so much that he doesn’t need to put much thought into it if there’s ever an occasion where he doesn’t particularly want to pay attention. Now, meeting the villains’ kids, is one of those occasions. He doesn’t want to think too much. If he does, he’ll screw up somehow, and the last thing he needs is to ruin his first impression. He already had a terrible night. He needs to show them he’s a kind, profound, perfect ruler that they can depend on.

He steps forward, balances out his eye contact, and shakes Mal’s hand with his right, covering it with his left. One shake, two…

He almost gets lost in her eyes. They’re a shade of green he’s never seen before, one that he can stare at all day, but then he notices a burning sensation on his left hand, and the world comes crashing down on him.

He pulls away quickly and pockets his left hand, fast enough that Audrey doesn’t notice, thankfully. If she did, then he’ll never hear the end of it. He makes sure to keep his left hand hidden and only shakes with his right (which no one notices because Jay hits him on his shoulder and everyone focuses on Carlos’s chocolate-covered face and Evie’s too lovestruck to notice anything else).

_Diplomacy. Diplomacy. Diplomacy._

_Stick to the script. Stick to the script. Stick to the script._

_Kind. Profound. Perf-_

“Or the day you show four peoples where the bathrooms are.”

And he tries. He tries so hard, but she’s snarky and sarcastic and striking. He moves point to point, making sure to keep his left thumb out of view, but she’s constantly distracting him with her comments and jokes and questions. And then there’s Audrey moving in-between them, linking arms with him, moving his arm to wrap around her and almost seeing the mar-

He’s relieved when Doug takes over. Twenty minutes after they arrive, Ben finds himself in his wardrobe, begging his royal dresser for makeup. It’s suspicious, and when she glances at the hand he has stuffed deeply into his suit pocket, he almost demands for it, but thankfully, she just hands him a bottle, a sponge, and swears to never mention a thing to his parents. He doesn’t know how much she knows, but he doesn’t stick around to find out. He runs into his room, locks himself in the bathroom, and doesn’t come out until her name is fully covered.

It’s quiet – the bathroom and his mind. He didn’t know what he expected when he finally got his saltmate name, let alone met his saltmate. Maybe a stomachache or tears. Instead, he only has shaking hands trying to cover up the scribbled three letters. They’re so small and neat that maybe they’d be unnoticeable if it weren’t for the color:

Green.

He’s never heard of colored names. The markings are always black with differing fonts. Then again, no one has ever heard of someone receiving their markings at different ages or how touching their mates seem to trigger the markings.

And no one will. No one can know about this. If they find out Mal is Ben’s saltmate, then it would be a disaster. The VKs would be ostracized, once again, and thrown back to the Isle. Ben’s first proclamation would be a failure, and even before he’s crowned, his people will hate him. Well, maybe not hate, but his name will never recover. He’ll be forever known as too kind, unprofound, imperfect.

With his mistake covered, Ben walks out and makes it to tourney practice.

It’s when he scores his first point that he vaguely wonders how Mal will hurt him.

* * *

The VKs’ names are whispered among the hall which leaves Jane shaking and crying in the nurse’s office with cuts under her thumbs. When she was eleven, no one knew who Mal or Carlos was. Today, everyone can’t help but pity her.

Everyone but Ben because he knows what this means. While he’s always been openminded and accepting, he knows Jane is straight. She was too traditional to experiment in her teens (Ben was too), and even if there is a slim possibility Jane may become bisexual or lesbian, Ben knows how dramatic Fate can be, and the alternative for this situation is much more cinematic. And if Mal is Jane’s saltmate, then Jane is hers, and that leaves Ben as her soulmate.

And that means Fate is a twisted bitch.

Ben skips his remaining classes, choosing to hide in his bathroom so he can wash off his makeup to see her name. Then cover it again only to wash it off a few seconds later, then cover it and wash it and cover it and wash it. His parents eventually find out he’s skipped, so they summon him to their chambers and ask him what’s wrong. When he says nothing, they scold him and he’s forced to go to tourney practice.

* * *

He finally understands Chad’s right hand. Evie.

What he doesn’t understand is what that means for Audrey.

Doug has Evie on his right hand and Chad on the other.

Ben hopes it not what he thinks it means.

Evie has no markings at all. Neither does Carlos or Jay or Mal.

And once again, Ben is lost.

* * *

He vaguely wonders how Mal will hurt Jane.

* * *

He sees Mal in the hallways and classes, stolen glimpses that he hopes she doesn’t notice. He tells himself it’s just to check up on her, to make sure that no one is given her a hard time.

At night, naked under his covers with his cold hand, he knows it’s something else.

* * *

Jane sports a new hairstyle and a new attitude towards Mal, and all of a sudden, Ben is mad. Why? He doesn’t know; he just feels cheated.

It’s the first night he does yell at night, and when his parents run into his room to check on him, he tells them it was a cramp. It doesn’t explain the tears, but his parents don’t question it. What does he have to lie about? After all, he’s their kind, profound, perfect son. He’s given them no reason to doubt him.

* * *

He vaguely wonders how Jane will hurt Mal.

* * *

She’s an artist. Of course she is. It only makes sense that the one thing Ben lacks at is something she’s incredibly talented in. And if he finds himself looking at the direction of her locker, it’s only because he’s looking at her masterpiece and not because he hopes he sees her.

He dreams of something else. He dreams of pinning her against the locker, forcing his lips onto hers until she ends up turning them, until his back is pressed against the metal ridges, until she falls to her knees.

He wakes up before dawn and quickly delivers his sheets to the laundry room. Thankfully, no one is there, so it’s easy for him to take clean sheets and change his bed before sunrise.

* * *

He almost scowls when Audrey walks away from him-

“Hey Bennyboo.”

-but any anger is gone when he turns and sees her. He smiles but doesn’t say anything, opting to stare at every feature of her face. To make sure she’s doing okay, he tells himself; to perfect his bedtime fantasies, he makes himself admit.

And it kills him a bit because here she is, as true and honest as anyone can ever be, and there he is, a nighttime deviant hiding behind a princely persona. She’s trying to assimilate. She’s talking to him, bantering with him, treating him like he’s something more than a prince. She _baked cookies_ for him, and instead of being overjoyed with her progress, he’s biting the cookie and thinking about how sweeter they’d be if she offered him a piece between her lips.

But…

But maybe that’s not so bad.

“Mal, have you always had those little golden flecks in your eyes?”

* * *

He doesn’t remember the game. He doesn’t remember the singing. He doesn’t remember Audrey. And none of that bothers him.

It isn’t until he wakes up one morning (from a peaceful night), goes to the bathroom, looks down at his left hand, and debates about forgoing the makeup that he thinks something’s wrong.

* * *

He doesn’t get home from his date with Mal until night. His parents are still awake (no doubt they were waiting up for him), and even though he wants nothing more than to shower and collapse into his bed, he answers every question about the date to keep their suspicions at bay. He makes them believe everything is fine. It makes him feel a bit guilty, dirty, but it’s nighttime. He’s tainted with the same dark matter that’s hidden between the stars.

He spends almost an hour in the shower, avoiding his bed for as long as he can, but when his pruney skin starts to sting, he forces himself out of the bathroom and face his thoughts.

She spelled him. He broke up with Audrey. Audrey kissed Chad. Her middle name is Bertha.

His thoughts remain choppy, small fragmented bits of memories as he tries to work though the haze of the spell. It isn’t until he lies down on his bed that he’s able to relax enough to the point where his mind wanders. It’s then that he accepts the truth: Mal is not his saltmate. Sure, she spelled him, but that hardly hurts him. No, Mal doesn’t keep him up that night. Instead, it’s the other name on his right hand, the one that ensured him an easy love. Now, Ben realizes how foolish it was to put so much faith in one name and a magic he doesn’t understand.

Because recalling that Audrey immediately kissed Chad, his best friend since they were born, after they broke up makes him feel more betrayed than when the lake washed all influences away.

And knowing that Mal jumped into the lake to save him, even though she can’t swim, makes him feel like he’s still swimming.

And witnessing everyone’s actions on Family Day has made him hate his people with a fire he’s never felt before.

And failing to cheer up Mal breaks his heart in a way it’s never broke before.

And the chocolate cupcake she gives him, the one that’s supposed to undo her love spell, is sweeter than any kiss he and Audrey shared.

* * *

He can’t pay attention to whatever Fairy Godmother is saying. He never could, not since preschool where he was forced to listen to her tell the exact same story every month. Instead, he wonders if Fate is just bored. Maybe that’s why Ben doesn’t have that formulaic, fairytale romance he was promised.

It was supposed to be simple. He and his soulmate were supposed to be in love, the hopeless kind of love that makes birds sing. Their saltmate was supposed to give them some trouble, but ultimately, their love would solve all their problems (well, their love and a few unrealistic musical numbers).

His parents’ hands were clear. On his mother’s, Adam and Gaston. On his father’s, Belle and Gaston.

Aurora’s, Maleficent and Phillip. Phillip’s, Maleficent and Aurora.

Audrey’s, Ben and Chad.

Not once did he ever imagine he’d be her saltmate. He still doesn’t, but that’s how it ended up, isn’t it? He left her for someone else. Sure, he was spelled, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s his name on Audrey’s hand, not Mal’s. Besides, his actions might’ve been caused by Mal, but he chose to follow them through. The spell washed off soon after. He still had a chance to come out, tell everyone of what Mal did, show them her name, and have her kicked out of Auradon. Instead, he stayed by her side. He chose Mal…

Is that how this works? Does Fate actually allow the individual to choose?

He takes a second to look around the cathedral. Just a few weeks ago, he pictured himself standing in the very spot he’s standing in, wearing the same uniform he’s wearing, with Audrey by his side wearing a white dress. He had their wedding planned.

But he decided Audrey is his saltmate and Mal is his soulmate.

Is he wrong?

* * *

He is.

Because seeing Mal holding the wand makes his heart drop in a way he’s never experienced before.

* * *

Later that night, he’s sitting on his bed. His hair is wet, dripping from the shower he didn’t care to thoroughly dry himself from. He feels himself crashing. The invincibility he felt earlier – dancing in the rain, paying no attention to the heavy weight of the crown on his head – is fading. He feels it seeping out of his muscles until he’s left shaking between the sheets.

The thought that Mal is his soulmate runs through his head too many times, but as the hours passed, he finds it make more sense than the alternative.

She is Queen of the Isle. The worst of the worst. He is (now) King of Auradon. The purest of the pure. He knows how his people will react. If they weren’t too keen on them “associating on purely friendly and platonic terms” (or so one gossip magazine said), then he has no doubts about how they will be when they find out they’re soulmates. How could Fate be so cruel to pair Ben (sweet, innocent Ben) with the spawn of evil itself?

But if only they knew what he thinks on his worst days. And if only they knew what she says on her best days. If only they knew how it feels to have her dance in his arms, to smell her shampoo when the wind blows her hair back and gently brushes against Ben’s face, to see her scowl soften into a look of awe and inspiration. If only they knew that at night he’s anything but kind and profound and perfect, that his growl today at the cathedral (while comical) was founded on pure rage, that (if given the chance) he would have ripped Maleficent apart with his bare hands.

Ben knows what this means. She can be good or he can be evil – and honestly, Ben can see this ending either way.

It’s a match made in Hell, one he wholeheartedly accepts more than him and Audrey, one that finally explains his restless nights, one that terrifies and exhilarates him at the same time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not too crazy about the ending, but endings have always been my weakness. Oh well. Anyways, I hope you like it, and if you want, you can post your own prompts.
> 
> RagingDrunkElephantInTheRoom, once again, I thank you for this idea. I hope you liked it!


	14. Delicate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is standing on a precipice, torn between his mind and heart. Fight and flight. (Ben’s p.o.v.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a poem I wrote for my creative writing class. Since it was Halloween today, my prof gave us a free topic so long as it was scary/creepy/etc. My poem was basically about someone giving up their soul to the devil, and when I got home, I realized how easily I could edit it into a small fic.
> 
> So yeah. I have no idea what the background or setting is. Obviously it’s evil!Mal and possibly evil!KingBen but really, I wrote this in an hour. Give me a break. I’ll expand later lol.
> 
> Still, I hope you enjoy it!

“They’ll believe in both of us.”

The words hang frozen in the air with delicacy, something he’s only seen once before. The image of an angry mob (villains who were stripped of their powers, he later realizes) reaching towards their carriage, nearly snatching his mother out. Instead, they only grasp at her pearls, and he can vividly remember the beads flying through the air, landing in the fire surrounding them.

Burning pearls, something he can smell on her.

She leans forward – shoulders hunched, eyes metallic, intense gaze. Everything about her is unsettling. Maybe that’s why he comes back to her.

Or maybe it’s the words she whispers into his ear every night. In the bed, against the brick walls of an alley, under the shadows of shady corners everyone loves to ignore. The words burrow into his winter spirit like leeches latching on, sucking him dry, and refusing to let go. The pain is exquisite, too much to even think about letting go – even though he knows it’s what he must do.

“I believe in you, Ben. In both of us.”

He turns his head away, his jaw clenched at the injustice of it all. She interprets it as an invitation to decorate the vast expanse of clean, untainted skin. Untainted compared to hers, at least. Her skin tells stories, ones of battles and body and blood. It’s the ones he dreamed of experiencing as a child, triumphant wars of mind and heart, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost see himself standing where she stood.

He is surrounded by an inhospitable wasteland, his bare feet aching from the heat and broken glass. Still, he isn’t careful. He merely stalks across the battlefield, relishing the wounds he can’t seem to stop giving himself. And the small trail of blood he leaves behind is nearly orgasmic; it’s evidence that he stood here, that he was the last to do so. He can walk for miles, but soon, a familiar lost finds him. A helpless feeling tightens around his throat, the same feeling he gets when he sits on his throne.

“Do you really?”

He doesn’t feel his mouth moving. He does feel hers curl into a smile, and it feels wonderful against his skin. He then feels her gaze, hotter than her body flushed against him, and it’s impossible for him to ignore it. He opens his eyes and looks at her.

A monster regarding him, its prey, with a predator’s focus.

He’s never been blind to what she is: a villain, the worst one that no one dares to even whisper about in fear that she might be listening. And she is. Every scream and cry and curse rings in her ears; it’s her lullaby, and it took some time, but after some months of this ongoing affair, Ben began to hear them too.

She leers at him, and he swears she holds the warmth of the sun. The type of warmth that he feels nothing but frustration at, the one that makes his skin feel too tight. The type of warmth that he finds himself wishing to hide from whenever the beads of sweat and the roughness of his throat become too much. The type of warmth that, as it’s retreating, leaves behind a cosmic shade of colors he considers wonders.

The type of warmth that he cries for when it’s gone. And she hears it.

He is standing on a precipice, torn between his mind and heart. Fight and flight. And suddenly, he is back in that wasteland. Still alone, until the haze clears and he finally sees her. Her back. Because he will always be following her lead.

“I do.”

She whispers before biting his earlobe.

_ This is a trick,  _ some desperate string inside him yells. But then she shifts in his lap, trails one hand down his chest and stops at his belt. She is waiting–

_ Don’t do this! _

–waiting for him.

She senses his indecision, desire. Fear, want. She slides down to her knees, her chest crawls against him the whole way down, and all he can feel is oil oozing down his spine, breath beating down his neck, pupils paralyzing his body. There’s two separate forces tugging at him, threatening to tear him apart. All he needs is one sudden move, and he will run.

But she just kneels, wide eyes staring expectantly at him. All of a sudden, he is in charge. He is above her, in front of her, burning her.

She isn’t touching him, but  _ fuck _ does he want her to.

“Our path is the same. We both want the same thing.”

There is something hungry in the monster’s gaze as it watches him, but it tempers (softens), and she’s there again.

“They blamed you for their failures. They turned their back on you.”

He can still feel the knife in his back, and it is something that will never numb, but her words – ring, sing, echo, tease – with truth, and it is slightly more bearable. It’s difficult, but for a moment, he can look at her and only see her, not his father’s blood or his mother’s tears.

“They’ve had their fun. Now it’s our turn.”

Ice floats, drifting in the ocean and marking something beyond his knowledge, and suddenly, he becomes aware of how much he fits in and how much she doesn’t.

She stands out like soot, a shadow, a stain, sin, and he realizes she doesn’t belong here with him. Not if it means that he’ll just cool her fire into ash.

But he can’t let her go, and he doesn’t stop her from leaning her head against his knee, and it amazes him how she can make that movement seem so elegant and exotic.

“If I do this, what will happen to them?”

No response.

His hand grips her hair and pulls, forcing her to look at him, but as soon as he looks into her knowing eyes, his bravado fades.

“Will they…”

A whisper that hurts his chest.

“Disappear?”

A laugh that makes his heart sing.

“Only if you want them to.”

An answer that is exactly what he wants to hear. Her words break something in him and releases a desperate, raw yearning for something he can’t even name. He just wants it. Needs it.

“Their time is over. It’s our turn.”

The façade falls and reveals a winter fox, leaving a henhouse after killing everything inside, a ring of white feathers clinging to its bloody muzzle.

“Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!!!


End file.
